


Septicemia

by sammustdie



Category: My Chemical Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:22:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammustdie/pseuds/sammustdie
Summary: Gerard keeps ruining things, but he never means it. Frank keeps getting hurt, but he never feels it.
Kudos: 2





	Septicemia

sep•ti•ce•mi•a  
A systemic infection in which pathogens are present in  
the circulating blood; also called blood poisoning.

A large number of bulky clouds are assembling across the sky, dark with rain, while the bleak sun is attempting to break through the impermeable horizon in the background. There’s something half-assed about it, something confused and disorderly, as if the weather gods can’t seem to make up their minds. The result is grey and heavy and it’s been stuck in that dreary rut for a while.

Frank folds his arms across his naked chest and throws a lazy glance upwards, thinking Fuck this place without really being aware of it.

It’s not like this particular part of the city magically transforms under a small patch of sunshine. If anything it just highlights the misfortune of the place. The only visible change during the self-inflicted 24-hour loop is the reoccurring transition between afternoon and evening, and there’s never been anything nice about that, rain or shine. Everything turns a polluted shade of pitch black while the omnipresent sound of police sirens howls like a background choir – and that’s all there is to it.

Frank rubs a tattooed hand over his chin and directs a critical eye at his crumbling neighborhood. Stringy washing lines zigzag halfheartedly between the buildings, slicing through a skyline which is always draped in pale silver, making the place look like the next doomed victim of an upcoming war. None of the gaping rows of toothless balcony mouths are graced with flowers, and their blind window eyes are mostly covered with blankets or blinds, day as night. The place is simply dead and full of ghosts; the human ghosts of long-term unemployment, failed social security plans and forgotten war veterans. All of them are currently living in a rundown dump not worth anything but the graceful mushroom wipeout of a nuclear test bomb. Should the local politicians present another annual report showing an increased rate of suicides and killings, then this particular area might officially change its name to Hellhole once and for all. Someone is always neglecting their kid or beating up their girlfriend around here.

They’re just decaying statistics and Frank is living in a place which is the ultimate proof that things will fall apart in the inevitable end. It’s too late for maintenance.

After a few additional moments of empty thoughts, he steps away from the window with a faint sigh and reaches for the gun on the coffee table. His hands are quick and efficient as he loads the weapon, a satisfying double-click telling him that the first round has settled into the chamber.

Then he brings the muzzle to his right temple and without any further hesitation, he pulls the trigger.

The shot is deafening, to say the least, and the hollow confinements of his apartment turn the blast into a minor explosion. The impact of the bullet makes his head snap forcefully sideways, his body following, and with a faint grunt he collapses on the floor with a heavy thump.

Frank remains lifeless, blood draining from his face and rapidly shaping a halo around his head that coats his cheek with red stickiness. After a few seconds he suddenly coughs and gasps for air. Momentarily confused and with the aftershock of the gunshot still ringing in his ears, he sits up and brings his hand to his head. The bullet hole is still there, wide and dead on his temple. He can feel the warmth of the burn mark stinging his fingertips, but he doesn’t get to feel around much longer before the gap begins closing in on itself. Slowly but steadily, Frank’s skin crawls to cover up blood and fractured bone, and a weird sensation races through his brain as neurons reconnect and fissures are reconstructed. He can feel his muscles contract in brief spasms throughout his body, from the corners of his eyes to the tip of his toes, as if his nervous system is being rapidly rebooted. He quickly raises his other hand to search for the bullet’s exit wound but realizes that it has already healed; just a few bloody smears are left in his hair and on his cheek.

Frank swears quietly and scowls at the wall. A cluster of blood drops and a few chunky bits of brain matter have formed a nice Milky Way-pattern, while the bullet itself has been reduced to a shriveled lump stuck in the middle of it. A fucking meteor lost in space.

The fact that he can sit there and evaluate the outcome of his own suicide isn’t really much of a shock. That his body spontaneously regenerates is old news, something that somehow started happening to him at one point in his childhood and has followed him ever since. He’s been around long enough to test it – this skill or curse or whatever it is – and he’s found out by now that there’s literally nothing out there that can kill him. Knives, bullets, buildings, bridges, ropes, poison, trains, trucks – Frank has tried it all. The more he finds himself coming out of certain death alive and unharmed, the more he hates his uncontrollable and reflexive invulnerability. It was cool for a little while but he turned twenty-five last October and the whole thing is really starting to bother him, especially when all he wants is to fucking kill himself already. He doesn’t want to blow his brains out on a monthly basis anymore. He’s tired of it. It doesn’t change or damage anything about his condition, just like deliberately living in a dangerous and crime-ridden dump like the Hellhole doesn’t seem to affect him in the slightest.

Frank wearily runs a hand across his cheek, leaving smudged fingerprints in the sticky patches of drying blood. At least he’s demonstrated the only good thing about living in this neighborhood; nobody cares about gunshots because they’re used to it. You can kill yourself in peace here if you really want – granted that it actually works.

“Frankie?” A muffled and terrified female voice is followed by a timid knock on the door. “Frankie – are you okay in there?”

Frank sighs irritably. Nobody cares – except for Cora Milner across the hall. That girl always cares too damn much.

“I’m fine,” he replies shortly. “Just another rat.”

“And… you tried to shoot it –? Again?”

“Yep.”

“Oh… Okay. Well, uhm… let me know if you need anything.”

“Yeah,” Frank mutters under his breath, “I need you to fuck off.”

He heads to the bathroom to wash himself up, just watching gloomily as blood lumps and bone fragments let go of his hair and spiral down the drain. He then soaks a towel and sweeps it halfheartedly across the floor and the wall, grimacing slightly as he does it. The wallpaper has become stained in one area after all the times he’s introduced the gun to his head, but he assumes it all goes along nicely with his shabby two-room apartment. He’s actually a failure on a Hellhole-level; the place won’t budge, no matter how rundown and shitty it is, and he won’t die, no matter how much fucking effort he puts into it. As if failing in itself wasn’t bad enough.

Frank eventually tosses the soiled rag in the bathroom sink and begins his search for cigarettes, soon realizing that everything he’s faced with this morning is a full ashtray and an empty box of Marlboro Reds. With a resigned huff he snatches up a crumpled shirt and a pair of old jeans that have been flung carelessly over a nearby chair, as well as a couple of mismatched socks whose respective twins he can’t be bothered to locate.

After he’s locked himself out of his apartment it doesn’t take many seconds before the door across the hall swings open and Cora dances into view. She’s balancing a cereal bowl in her too bony hands while all the same trying to look like she just casually happened to open the door, although Frank can tell that she’s obviously been spying on him ever since she woke up. She likes to do that sort of thing. It isn’t so much the occasional gunshot that draws her attention as it is Frank’s entire existence. He’s starting to regret he even fucked her in the first place; there’s no getting rid of her now.

The old t-shirt she’s wearing is washed-out and looks like a medium size that’s still too wide for her, and it’s pulled halfway over a pair of bright blue hipster panties with a flaky print that seems to read ‘Kill All Your Darlings’. For a moment Frank is tempted to blurt out with a snide remark about STDs, but instead he allows his eyes to angle in on her starving hips. Like she confessed to him a few months back, her aim in life is to become a model or an actress. Her dry cereal diet will probably turn out to be the one thing that either fulfills her dreams or eventually kills her, although Frank has long since placed his bet on the latter. He doesn’t care much for the showbiz industry but Cora is most likely to be deemed too unattractive, too short, too old, too pale, too fat, too whatever for any agency anyway, regardless of what she consumes. Everything she has “auditioned” for so far also tends to pop back up on shady sites on the internet. The poor girl is a deteriorating trainwreck, like everything else, and she doesn’t even know it. The shitty conditions are obviously rubbing off on her and a weak sting of jealousy pokes Frank in the chest.

“Where you headed this morning, Frankie?”

Another annoying thing about Cora is the fact that she keeps calling him ‘Frankie’. The sweetness of the intonation would suggest that to her it’s a term of endearment, like she’s brushing his hair out of his face or pinching his cheek. To Frank, it’s only something that reduces his age with about fifteen fucking years. He’s ready to swear it makes him shorter as well. ‘Frankie’. What the hell. His own mother never called him that, not even when he was six years old and still loved.

“Out of cigarettes.” He shrugs and quickly turns to leave, thinking he better get out of there before she asks him to come in; he has no desire for her bony hips at the moment.

“Hey, did you get the rat?”

“Nope.” Frank scowls, unwillingly reminded of his failed morning suicide. “It survived.”

He’s making his way downstairs and running his hand along the sixth floor banisters when something suddenly pierces right through his palm. He stumbles to an awkward halt, his footsteps echoing loudly against the concrete walls. Frank irritably lets out a string of curse words, knowing all too well what the matter is before he can fix his eyes on the damage.

A huge, rusty nail has been protruding from the rotting wood of the banister for a while, like a middle finger aimed at everyone passing by, and Frank keeps forgetting about it. It’s a small problem, one that should’ve been fixed long before the kid of the Romanian gypsy down in 23 had his radial artery severed, but since the same nail is currently stuck in Frank’s hand, it’s obvious that it hasn’t. Then again, it’s not like the owner of the building gives a shit.

“Nobody gives a shit”, Frank mutters, correcting his own thoughts.

He yanks himself free with a slight wince, even though it doesn’t hurt. Things have more or less stopped hurting ever since his regeneration sped up, but the sound of metal slowly slicing through the tendons in his hands is enough to make anyone nauseous.

He spreads his fingers, watching how the bleeding immediately stops and how the skin closes nicely around the wound, like it’s no big deal at all. In the end he’s staring back at his unharmed hand, his lifeline only tainted by a light red smudge. Frank glares as he wipes his palm off on his thigh, rubbing the bloody spots onto his dark jeans and into invisibility. Even when he doesn’t actively try he gets reminded of his own fucked up freak show. To be invincible is a fucking joke.

A chilly wind is guarding the ruins outside and he hunches his shoulders against it, heading for the 7-11 right across the street. The usual group of wannabe thugs is crowding outside his building and a loud wolf-whistle is directed at him when he passes by. It’s quickly followed up by a couple of half-assed slurs and a “Wanna suck my dick, faggot?”, which seems to be the favorite hit among these particular delinquents.

Frank flips them off with a faked half-smile and a shrug. “Sucked your Mom last week,” he calls back. “I doubt yours is any bigger than hers.”

He’s almost convinced that his insult is rude enough to make them gang up and knife him or something, but as expected their fearless attitude doesn’t extend much further beyond their words. Eventually he receives nothing but a lame “Fuck you, man!” in return.

So much for being badass, Frank thinks as he stalks inside the convenience store.

The place isn’t much different from the ground it once had been built upon. It’s carrying the general air of ever-present shabbiness, complete with large missing flakes of paint, a couple of meaningless graffiti doodles and a month’s worth of garbage pressed up against the brick walls. Neglect is just the precursor of decay, and it’ll leech on to anything and spread like a fucking disease. When one thing is rundown and crappy, it’s usually going to mutate and move on to other things, making them equally rundown and crappy.

He blankly ignores the owner of the place – Gandhi or Gupta or whatever – who sleepily looks up as he enters. The guy is just some naïve foreigner who happened to look for the American dream in the wrong place, and all it has brought him and his family so far is this shitty store and a massive landslide of economic loss. Come to think of it, maybe hopelessness plays a bigger role in the decaying process than simple neglect or maintenance does. People have lost hope around here, or replaced it with apathy, at the very least. Decay happens relentlessly because it doesn’t depend on fragile human concepts such as hope or cooperation or whatever the fuck. It just runs its own show.

Frank quickly makes his way through the store to snatch a couple of packs of Marlboros from the usual rack. He’s got no idea how they still afford to stock up on things around here. It’s probably contraband.

If it hadn’t been for the constant chain-smoking, anyone could’ve mistaken him for some kind of abstinent New Age freak, the kind that meditates five times a day and “treats his body as a temple”. Truth is, he’s given up on a lot of things because they simply don’t affect him. He doesn’t drink because the alcohol is out of his system before he can spell ‘vodka’, not even leaving him with so much as a feeling of lightheadedness. It’s the same thing with any drug; God knows how many times he’s technically OD’d and died. He doesn’t eat or sleep all that much anymore either, mostly because his body doesn’t require sustenance and restitution in the same way as before. Even hooking up has turned into something he does out of boredom and restlessness; not because it feels good. It’s like his body is living its own life. It decides for itself what it needs and what it wants to respond to, and somehow it doesn’t connect properly with his brain. Eating has turned into a habit, pain has turned into brief discomfort, fucking someone has turned into pastime. And blowing his brains out doesn’t work.

Smoking is one of the few things left that he still enjoys. It’s something satisfying about the fact that he’s immune to porous lungs and blistered throats. He even finds anti-smoking campaigns kind of funny, like the drastic ones where they go live on a surgery and you can see them pull a lump of fat out of some poor fucker’s carotid artery. It’s funny how vulnerable normal people are; one unforeseen aneurysm and they might die in their sleep. That sounds like a fortunate, no-nonsense way to go.

Frank pays up and leaves, a cigarette finally dangling from his lips. At the end of the day, he assumes that the constant smoking is no different than everything else; it just connects with the nail stuck in his hand and the bullet splitting through his brain. He searches absently for his lighter and considers for a moment going back to his apartment, but the prospect of facing Cora again isn’t very appealing. In the end he decides to walk the few blocks to the nearest burger joint.

***

There isn’t a lot of ground to cover before a whole different dimension unfolds, as if some invisible line exists between the Hellhole and the rest of the area. The further you move away from the infected spot, the smoother and prettier things get. Ironically enough, a better life – or at least a better way to spend the day – is practically right around the corner. All in all, the surrounding area is acceptable in a lot of ways. It’s a nice state, to be fair.

It’s just the Hellhole that insists on holding on to its residents like they’re hostages and protecting its borders with clusters of desperate druggies and other vermin. Frank knows that he’s one of the few people who actually have the guts to move in and out of there on a regular basis. One, two or fifty stab wounds doesn’t make much of a difference; he’ll still be around to pull the knife out of his body, clean the blade off on his jeans and hand it back to his attacker. He’s done it before; the last time he ended up yelling at the guy for having shredded his shirt. Something like that freaks out even the most hardened criminal.

He reaches the small diner and is immediately met by a smiling young girl as he approaches the counter.

“How are you?” she asks brightly; ‘Charlie’, according to her nametag. “What would you like to order today?” Her greeting is a standardized set of rehearsed words, attempting to lull him into a safe cocoon of good mood and overambitious customer service.

Frank ignores her completely and glances up at the displayed menus, not feeling particularly drawn to any of it. In the end he just shrugs and digs into his pocket for some money. “Medium Coke.”

“Okay, right up.” She sounds cheerful enough even though his behavior apparently annoys her, as if he’s automatically a bad person for not returning her smile or finding her good mood contagious. People are weird.

Once he has his drink in hand, Frank skulks over to an unoccupied table in the corner, giving the diner a quick sweep as he sits down. The place isn’t very full, at least not with the lunch hour already passed a good two hours ago, but he still spots a couple of familiar loners; old drunks, unemployed mothers, a few teenagers who are obviously skipping school. He’s seen the majority of these people before; not the same faces but the same type.

A couple of tweens at the table right in front of him seems to be sharing a juicy piece of gossip, judging from their animated conversation. Frank glances at them. Their skirts are far too short for their age and their matching tank tops are fronting bands they’ve probably never even heard of. Their striped leggings are mirror reflections of each other, while their Converses are fashionably mismatched and covered in meaningless song lyrics. Along with their identical pixie hairstyles, dolled up with cheap ribbons and plastic pins, his brain quickly reduces their existence to Pixie One and Pixie Two.

“Oh my God, don’t you just hate when that happens?” the girl with her back against him – Pixie One – exclaims.

“I know, right?” Pixie Two nods enthusiastically, leaning across the table and revealing a cleavage that is pretty much non-existent. “I hate when people do that!” She’s barely able to force the words out between the smacking mouthfuls of pink bubble gum, but she somehow manages to pull through without getting any of it caught in her braces.

Frank purses his lips in disapproval; the frequent use of the word ‘hate’ has turned into one of life’s pet peeves. ‘Hate’ is a superior word, something that belongs somewhere else than in the cheap common tongue. “I hate it when…” has become a prefix to a bunch of whiny, irrelevant and trivial problems. Problems that are, much too often, imaginary and retarded. If it was up to him he’d rather have everyone replace ‘hate’ with ‘dislike’. People don’t appreciate how strong the sentiment actually is, not until something really bad happens to them – or until they turn into something bad.

He looks away with a restless sigh; after a total of five minutes he’s already sick of listening to the high-pitched chattering of the girls next to him. He’s obviously wasting his time here. He’s about to get up and leave when an unfamiliar young man catches his eye. His table is at the other side of the diner and he’s just sitting there alone with his untouched meal, staring absently at the passing cars and the people outside. Frank’s body changes his mind for him and he slowly sinks back into his seat, staring across the room.

The stranger’s hair is messy and dark, seemingly starting to grow a little long. His bangs look a little windswept and they are constantly falling into his eyes in wide arches, regardless of how many times he trails his hand through them. His worn leather jacket looks like a crumpled thrift store bargain, while his jeans are faded and frayed at the edges. He could easily have passed as the becomingly poor artistic type hadn’t it been for his Converses; they are obviously original and brand spanking new. Thanks to their brilliantly clean soles, Frank doesn’t believe for a second that the guy is actually from this neighborhood.

Nice try, Frank thinks absently and reaches for his cup of dead Coke, poking at the melting ice cubes with his drinking straw. If you think that disheveled street style of yours is gonna make you blend in around here then fucking think again.

He’s got to be living in the city somewhere, Frank is sure of it. He’s probably slightly above middle class; not wealthy enough to clearly stand out among his fellow Americans, but he’s probably a casual superstar on his summer vacations abroad. He’s got a handsome face that typically calls for such things; cute nose, brilliant eyes, distinct jawline. It’s obvious that he was given the best tickets in the gene pool raffle. He’s easily someone who can tip the scale both ways between adorably charming and arrogant asshole; whatever suits him.

Frank can’t help but wonder what someone like him is doing in a dump like this. It’s true that this particular end of the failed district has admirably managed to keep its head above the utterly horrible standards of the Hellhole, but it’s no secret that the place is still sporting an ugly-looking head. Bottom line is, he hasn’t seen this guy around before. It shouldn’t be interesting but in one inexplicable way or the other, it really is.

Somebody else joins the stranger’s table and Frank frowns when he realizes who it is; it’s the girl behind the counter, Charlie something. Her movements pulls the man out of whatever thoughts he’s lost in and his pale fingers let go of the fries he’s been playing with. Frank ruffles his bangs up and sinks back against the cold bench, trying not to look too conspicuous about watching them. Disheveled City Boy says something, his lips shaping themselves around a smile as she takes a seat. He twists his body slightly, angling his face just enough for Frank to catch notice of the subtle curve of his nose, his small teeth and the elegant bow of his upper lip. His eyebrows arch along with his smile, laugh lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. Charlie and Disheveled City Boy obviously have something going that reaches beyond the regular customer service.

The odd couple doesn’t make much sense until it suddenly dawns on Frank that there’s an age difference between them. It’s nothing too shocking, but looking past his youthfulness and her maturity, it’s clear that she can’t possibly be much older than eighteen, while he has to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties at the most. Frank nods slowly to himself, his subconsciousness having already reached a conclusion; Disheveled City Boy is most likely a cheater. The guy is probably some sort of big shot with a fair amount of money in the bank and a wife or fiancée waiting somewhere on the fashionable East Side. He’s completing his love life with a younger piece on the side. Frank smirks to himself; the guy must be either very desperate or very bored if he feels the need to come all the way out here for an adventure he could easily find elsewhere. When you have a face like that it shouldn’t be necessary to even make an effort.

The girl reaches forward to pat his arm, her baby blue polyester uniform a striking contrast to his fashionable thrift store lie. Then she gets up and leans over to plant a light kiss at the corner of his mouth, only confirming Frank’s suspicions. Disheveled City Boy nods at her and smiles widely, hazel eyes sparkling in the fluorescent light, and he holds on to that smile until she’s left his table and slipped out through the staff door. After that his face falls slightly and his smile is replaced by a doubtful frown. Frank narrows his eyes, watching him as his fingers resume their restless picking of French fries. He doesn’t quite get him; there’s a strange expression of innocent guilt on his face that doesn’t fit the ‘dirty cheater’ label. For a second Frank kind of wishes he could read his mind.

Five to ten minutes later Charlie returns, having changed into something more casual. Disheveled City Boy wipes his hands off on his jeans and gets to his feet, and Frank quickly averts his gaze as the couple passes his table. He gives them a few seconds’ head start before he follows, half hoping he might catch another sight of them and see where they’re headed off to, but when he reaches the sidewalk they’re already gone.

Frank gives himself a mental shrug, thinking it doesn’t really matter anyway. He’s about to head back in the direction he came from when the next bus headed for the city slowly eases its way past him. Grabbed by the mere impulse he changes his mind and jogs to catch up with it; he might as well spend the rest of the evening somewhere else.

Part Two  
The people on the bus are just different versions of the people in the burger joint; they’re unemployed, anonymous loners. The closer they get to the city these people are gradually being replaced by less miserable passengers. It’s like watching a physical and collective demonstration of a ten minute mood change.

It doesn’t take long before the familiar feeling of restlessness wraps around Frank’s legs and slithers through his body, eventually making his feet and fingers tap impatiently along to the unheard beat of boredom. He gets off the bus a couple of blocks away from the shopping mall and heads in that general direction, inhaling his way through a quick cigarette as he goes.

The mall is massive and brand new and has already gained its status as “the heart of the city”, but as far as Frank’s concerned it’s more like the liver; way too many toxins pass through it to even be considered the heart. Besides, the more of it you try to remove, the more it just strikes back with the same regenerated amount. Frank hates to admit it but it sounds familiar.

He picks the first café with the best view and settles for a second round of pointless people watching. If this day unfolds like most other days he’ll probably be hitting someone up later, one of the Devins or Morgans or Rileys he’s gotten to know through the years and who are always willing to help him pass the time. Frank pulls his phone out of his pocket and thumbs aimlessly through his short list of contacts, even though he’s not feeling all that enthusiastic about it. To fuck someone where everything is all about uncontrolled whining and desperate requests of getting fucked either harder or faster won’t make much of a difference. It’s not like he can feel it anyway.

In the end he decides against it and finds himself glaring into the depths of his untouched coffee. The random fuckbuddy-system is pretty pointless, and it only reinforces the possibilities of ending up with a boyfriend or girlfriend he simply doesn’t want. He’s received affectionate kisses before, hints and pleas about going steady, but Frank can’t imagine himself assuming that role. It’s not like he’s got a lot to offer anyone, not besides his extreme invulnerability and his obsession with his own impossible suicide – and hardly anyone knows about those fucked up things. There’s no point in getting emotionally attached when he’s walking around chained to a death wish. Frank doesn’t even know what it’s like to fall in love. Besides, he doesn’t care. He just tells them they shouldn’t hold their breath and then he leaves them.

Come to think of it, he can’t even remember how or where he’s met all these people in the first place. He’s engaging in meaningless fucks on a biweekly basis but he’s got no idea how he’s managed to stumble across them. He can’t even remember the day Cora moved in across the hall – and Cora goes out of her way to make him notice her. Frank has a vague theory about how his own perception of the world is going to fade with time, in the end reduced to nothing but a passing blur of seasons and events he couldn’t care less about. The days actually seem shorter already, as if time has been speeding up with the turn of every year. By his thirtieth birthday he’s pretty sure he’ll be living under the illusion of a thirteen-hour day, continuing to shrug off a circadian rhythm that’s long since been thrown out of loop.

As the late evening turns into early night, more and more people keep streaming into the mall and Frank decides to go home. As he heads for the exit he catches a blurry reflection of himself in the display window of one of the shops. The smudged flash of his neck tattoo makes him stop and consider his double-image for a moment. The faded motive says “FOREVER JINXED” in crooked letters, added a banner and a pair of scissors, and it’s the most recent one of the few he’s bothered to get. As a result of rapid regeneration it’s almost impossible to get tattooed; it’s nothing but a huge inconvenience that usually ends in several awkward attempts, a freaked out tattoo artist and a constant search for sketchy studios where they won’t recognize him. Thanks to a bunch of healed injuries he’s also got several clean spots were there used to be ink. Those gaps in his tattoos are the closest he’ll ever get to having ‘scars’. With time they’re probably going to fade altogether, eventually broken down and reborn as unharmed skin. It’s not even possible to make a permanent statement about how much everything sucks. Forever jinxed, alright.

Unsafe neighborhood aside, Frank ignores the bus and decides to walk the distance; he’ll do anything that might delay his second encounter with Cora. He flips another cigarette out of his pocket, thinking he’s going to have to try extra harder with the gun. Maybe he’ll find a way to stay conscious long enough to shoot himself in the head twice. Or he should consider buying an additional gun; one muzzle for each temple. The bullets might meet perfectly in the middle and make his head explode, once and for all. Worth a try.

Frank’s only a block away from his building when a loud scream suddenly tears through the abandoned darkness. He stops dead in his tracks, dropping his half-finished smoke in sheer surprise; he swears irritably when the glowing embers are extinguished by a dark pool of dirty rainwater. Somewhere in the darkness the muffled screaming continues, unaffected by his insignificant loss. The voice is female and terrified and clearly the result of a life-or-death struggle.

He reluctantly moves along the concrete, following the sound until it leads him to an empty alley. Two figures are struggling alone in the shadows, only accompanied by a couple of heavy garbage containers and a stray cat that flees the scene with a loud hiss. There’s one prostitute, skirt torn and heels broken, fighting to get out of the chokehold of some random drunken guy. The whole thing seems pretty obvious. The woman is about to get raped and Frank is directly faced by a personal choice; do something or walk away.

Throughout his life there’s never been a moment where he considered making himself and his abilities useful. He’s never felt the need to put on spandex and a cape and jump from building to building in order to save people. He could have acted as a human shield on several occasions but as far as he’s concerned life means every man to himself. And just because life screwed him over doesn’t make him responsible for everyone else. There’s no such thing as being an extraordinary hero.

He bites his lip uncertainly and glances at the two people, who look like they’re engaging in a rather unattractive waltz. The man manages to halfheartedly rip the woman’s top and she begins to sob loudly, the sound bouncing off the brick walls surrounding them. Frank sighs heavily; if he’s going to play for time then he might as well do it this way.

He’s about to zip his hoodie shut when running footsteps suddenly approaches him from behind, and he turns around just in time to see a figure brush past him and then sprint down the alley.

As far as Frank can make out it’s a man of medium to strong build; not very tall or athletic, but not too short or skinny either. He seems pretty average, with slightly slumped shoulders and a modest running speed. A ski mask has been pulled over his head, leaving only his eyes visible, and his orange track jacket is a complete mismatch against his light blue jeans and Converses. For a moment he looks like an overly optimistic mugger who’s just keen on joining the party – until he grabs the drunken assailant by the shoulders and yanks him away from the panicking prostitute.

Frank blinks in surprise as the masked man places one and then two well-aimed blows right in the confused rapist’s face, hitting him so hard he can practically hear his jaw snap. Without even pausing to acknowledge the fact that breaking someone’s face makes your knuckles hurt like a bitch, the stranger takes a good hold of the drunk’s jacket. While completely ignoring the obvious – that his opponent is much taller and heavier than him – he grips him by the collar and gives him an effortless push that sends him flying right through the air. The drunkard is more or less flying, like a spineless ragdoll, with limbs and clothes flapping soundlessly through the air. He lands in the nearest trash container with a loud crash and remains still.

Frank has frozen on the spot, his mouth dropped half-open with mild fascination. Whoever the mystery guy is he must have been overtaken by one hell of an adrenalin rush, because that’s definitely not something you do every day.

A burst of loud noises suddenly erupts from the other side of the street, momentarily splitting Frank’s attention. He takes a step out of the shadows just in time to notice a bunch of teenagers setting fire to an innocent cluster of firecrackers – and in the next moment someone runs straight into him. The impact meets his right arm with such force that he can feel it snap immediately. He stumbles backwards and falls flat on his back, getting the wind knocked right out of him.

“Oh –!”

The horrified outburst is accompanied by the hurried shuffling of feet, followed by the shadow of someone looming over him.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” the stranger exclaims, his voice muffled through his mask. “I – I didn’t see you, I was just gonna – I – oh no.” He chokes on his words, his body swaying as though he’s about to faint. “Your fucking arm… I don’t – oh God –”

Frank ignores the man’s rambling speech with an irritable huff and glances down, only then discovering how bad the damage actually is. One of the bones in his forearm has snapped clean off and is protruding from his skin; he can clearly see it creating a mini tent against his jacket. Frank tries to roll the sleeve up but quickly realizes that it’s no use; the split ends of his fucking broken bones are in the way. He sighs and shrugs the hoodie off to inspect the damage more closely. The bone in question has to be the radius, by the looks of it, and it almost resembles the end of a bloody shipwreck sticking up from a sea of flesh. Compared to sending a bullet through his head, this is going to take some actual effort to fix.

“I – uh,” the stranger begins nervously, his eyes looking utterly terrified. “You seriously have to go to the hospital. That – that looks really, really bad. I’m so sorry –”

“Save it,” Frank cuts him off and scowls. “Jesus Christ, man – you could do the rest of us a favor and watch where the hell you’re going. You’re obviously as clumsy as fuck.”

“But I had to see what was –”

“Those were firecrackers, asshole!” Frank snaps. “You almost ruined my fucking jacket too,” he adds irritably. “I don’t exactly shit money, just so you know.”

The man starts an awkward reply but abruptly falls silent when Frank reaches over with his healthy arm and simply shoves the broken bone back under his skin. It’s protesting slightly to begin with but he grits his teeth and gives the splintered end an insistent push, forcing it back where it belongs. He pulls his fingers out of the gaping hole in his arm and watches as the bones and muscles reconnects smoothly, like magnets attaching themselves to each other. Once the process is over all that’s left of the injury are a few crooked trails of blood. Luckily, the broken bone just barely missed the vague traces left of his Frankenstein tattoo.

“Holy shit,” the masked man breathes.

He stares at him, his eyes bright and wide in the middle of the darkness of his mask, and Frank is pretty sure his mouth has dropped open behind the thick fabric as well. Great – so now he’s got a witness to the freak show.

“How –” the stranger begins, his arms gesticulating aimlessly as Frank gets back on his feet.

“You don’t wanna know,” he mutters, pulling his hoodie back on.

The man keeps staring at him, scanning his face like he’s incapable of deciding whether or not he’s real. Then, like a wordless afterthought, he reaches forward and grabs Frank’s hand, giving it a squeeze that actually breaks his fingers. Frank can literally hear the bones crunch inside the stranger’s closed fist.

“Hey!” he exclaims, stabbing an angry glare at him as he pulls his arm back. “What the hell are you doing, you fucking jerk!”

Frank holds his eerily disfigured hand up for closer inspection. For a second or two they’re both caught in dead breathless silence, until his fingers start readjusting on their own. Illuminated by the weak glow from the streetlights they snap back into place, nerves and bones and skin pulling together like a self-solving and ridiculous jigsaw puzzle.

“You can heal yourself,” the other one whispers, eyes locked on the bloody remains coating Frank’s hand.

It’s not until then that the entire situation is given a whole new meaning. The man Frank is faced with is actually surprisingly strong. He’s superhumanly strong. What he just witnessed has got nothing to do with adrenaline. Adrenaline alone won’t effortlessly splinter anyone’s bones, let alone break their arm.

“You – I mean – your body regenerates.”

Frank opens his mouth to tell him some shit about how this is ‘not what it looks like’, but he abruptly shuts his mouth when the stranger pulls his mask off. It takes him a moment to fully recognize him, but when he does his heart leaps right up his throat.

It’s the young man from the diner. It’s fucking Disheveled City Boy, the one with the thrift store jacket and the brand new Converses. He’s standing in front of him with his dark ruffled hair and his perfectly handsome face and he’s just beaten up a guy twice his size.

With those hands, Frank thinks vaguely. What the fuck.

There isn’t a single scratch on him and to top it all off, he just squeezed his fucking fingers to bits. No matter how much Frank is used to seeing the pieces of his own brain smeared across the wall, this is far too much to comprehend in one simple go. He immediately jumps a step back when City Boy moves closer.

“Wait!” There’s an expression on the stranger’s face that borders on desperation. “Can we talk –?”

“No,” Frank blurts out, his thoughts tangled up in a knot that makes him opt for the easiest way out, which is to flee the scene without further explanations. “I – I have to go.” And with that he turns sharply, the short-lived echoes of his running footsteps the only thing that stays behind.

***

The hours of next day are lazily pushing lunchtime when Frank eventually dares to make his way outside. He’s spent the entire night pacing aimlessly around his apartment, alternating between chain-smoking most of his remaining cigarettes and scrutinizing his hand, as though expecting to find lingering scars among the weak ink and drying spots of blood. It’s been a strange few hours, with returning thoughts about the unmasked City Boy clouding the rusty gleam in the horizon. Time has been moving slowly for once and the whole thing honestly throws him off a little.

Frank steps out of his building and throws a brief glance up at the sky. There’s nothing complete about the fractured clouds above, even though a few amputated sunbeams and disorganized patches of blue are peering down at the neighborhood. He spends a couple of blocks dodging the occasional clusters of worthless dealers and hobos before he reaches the empty and rundown playground. He stops and absently locates his very last cigarette, stabbing a glare at the empty slides and swing sets.

To be honest he fucking hates playgrounds. His childhood bullies always used to beat him up in places like that, and he never got to tell anyone about it because his wounds healed so rapidly. All he was left with was the dirt on his jeans and the rips in his shirt, and whenever he came home looking like that his mother would yell at him for being reckless. When he was little and still cared, he used to wonder what she would say if she’d seen his split lip or felt his broken ribs before they stitched themselves up.

Frank crosses the street and claims one of the unoccupied swings, watching as the ashy end of his cigarette crumbles and feathery fragments spiral towards the ground. Once he reached his teenage years he used to return to the playgrounds, mostly just to scare the shit out of the kids. He’d ask them if they wanted to see something cool and then he’d pull his lighter out and stick his tongue into the flame, keeping it like that until the skin got scorched and practically started melting. He probably scarred a lot of innocent minds for life. Stupid fucking kids.

He sighs, his mind leaving the side note from his past and relentlessly returning to the stranger from last night. Frank throws a downward glance at his hand and spreads his intact fingers, again trying to figure out how it’s possible for one perfectly average-looking guy to be that fucking strong. It’s as impossible as himself, something which doesn’t add up with his conviction of being one of a fucked up kind in this world.

Frank is so lost in his contemplation that he doesn’t even notice the shadow next to him before it utters a tentative “hey”.

He looks up, vaguely registering that the sun has finally managed to break through the clouds, before his insides hurl themselves through a surprised somersault. It’s his thoughts come to life. It’s fucking Disheveled City Boy – who all of a sudden looks anything but disheveled. His old leather jacket and worn jeans have been ditched in favor of a business casual combination of black pants and a shirt, while his ruffled hair has been admirably tamed. He’s such a striking contrast against the shitty streets surrounding them that Frank can’t help but gape stupidly at him.

City Boy gesticulates awkwardly at the empty tire swing beside him. “Okay if I join you?”

Frank finds himself unable to come up with anything sensible to say so he just shrugs and looks away, quietly wondering what the hell this guy is even doing around these parts. He looks like a stranded alien who’s ventured off on his own and gotten lost while waiting for the mothership to pick him up.

“You got a bat cave around here?” Frank asks.

“Yeah, about that…” A faint blush forms on the stranger’s cheeks and he lets out a laugh. “I hope I didn’t freak you out last night, I really didn’t mean to. It’s just… I’m kinda strong and when I saw that you were able to…” The rest of his sentence trails off and he gesticulates at Frank’s hands, as though to emphasize his point.

“No fucking shit you’re kinda strong. You almost tore my arm off.”

“It wasn’t a great way to introduce myself, I’m sorry.” He extends his arm towards him and smiles. “Gerard Way.”

Frank hesitates, suspiciously searching the guy’s face. Maybe there’s some kind of hidden agenda lurking behind that friendly expression of his, one that people normally can’t see because his handsomeness is in the way. A couple of quiet seconds passes, before Frank gives in and introduces himself with a mutter. This time his fingers are briefly caught in a careful grasp that’s hardly even considered a handshake. No wonder, judging from what went down last night.

“So…” Gerard looks around the empty playground, eyes uncertainly sweeping over rusty spring riders and broken monkey bars. “You come here often?”

“I live here,” Frank snorts. “And I’m pretty sure you don’t so what the fuck are you here for?”

“Uhm…” Gerard blinks, looking surprised and a little confused at his sharp reply. “I was just trying to… I mean…” The rest of his sentence fades out with a half-frustrated sigh and he shakes his head, starting over again. “Okay, this is probably gonna sound ridiculous but… this neighborhood is kinda perfect for someone like me.” He runs his hand through his hair and shrugs, almost apologetically. “I’m just trying to do my share of the crime fighting.”

Frank stares at him, amazed at the unexpected answer. The superhero he never had any desire to be actually turns out to be this guy. He rolls his eyes with a condescending snort. “You’re right,” he nods, kicking dully at the hardened sand beneath his shoes. “Sounds real fucking stupid.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that you ran off in this direction last night,” Gerard continues tentatively. “And I totally understand if you think this whole thing is weird but… I’m on my lunch break right now.” He pauses, eyening him hopefully. “You wanna grab a cup of coffee or something?”

“I guess you had one our fancy cafés in mind?” Frank replies sarcastically.

“Right…” Gerard considers the buildings surrounding them, biting his lip unsurely. Then he cranes his neck and points across the unmoved lawn. “I bet they have coffee over there though?” he says, singling out the familiar 7-11 in the near distance. “What d’you think?”

Frank still hasn’t got a clue as to why this man has wasted half his lunch break tracking him down, but it’s obvious he’s not getting rid of him that easily. It’s better to get it over with anyway. “Fine,” he sighs reluctantly. “Whatever.”

Gerard grins and gets up from the swing, but in the process he tugs a little too hard at one of the rusty chains. It snaps loudly in half and drops noisily to the ground, where it stirs up a small cloud of dust and shapes itself into a halfhearted coil.

They both stare at the sudden damage, momentarily dumbfounded, before Gerard lets out a short laugh. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” A disarming smile tugs nervously at his lips. “Sometimes I’m just… extremely clumsy.”

Frank watches the crooked swing with mild fascination. When it comes to effortlessly breaking things that shouldn’t easily break, Gerard seems to be an unintentional expert. “Never mind,” he replies indifferently. “Things fall apart around here anyway.”

They cross the dry grass of the playground in awkward silence, with Gerard continuously sneaking glances in Frank’s direction and Frank determinately ignoring them. It seems like he really wants to start up a conversation but he swallows his words back every time. A look of relief flits across his face when they finally reach the store; he greets the moping owner with an easy smile and happily states that coffee is on him.

He busies himself with the coffee machine while rambling pointlessly on about the weather and following nonsense. Frank doesn’t really pay attention; he just stuffs his hands in his pockets and allows his drifting mind to skip the semantics behind Gerard’s words. He sacrifices a few quiet glances at him instead, noting the gestures of his pale hands, his dark hair bending bridges across his eyebrows, and the crooked line his lip curves into as he speaks. His appearance isn’t exactly screaming ‘superhuman strength’.

“Hey, Frank…” Gerard pays for the coffee and pulls him back into the one-way conversation. “You mind if I ask you something?”

Frank’s attention skips from Gerard’s hands to the coins being dropped into the cash register before arriving at an instinctive feeling that says he definitely does mind. He doesn’t want this guy to ask him anything. He wants him to leave him alone. But instead he shrugs, his protest somehow overridden. Gerard hands him his coffee and gestures out of the stained window, suggesting they take the conversation out of earshot.

“What you can do is fucking amazing,” he says as they step outside and into the shadows underneath the canopy. “But I kinda get the feeling you’re not too keen on having… special talents. Maybe it’s just me, but I think it’s a pretty cool skill. Right? Not being able to feel pain or get injured or even die –”

“That’s just the problem.” Frank impassively twists the lid on his coffee and scowls at the dirty ground.

“What is?”

“That I can’t fucking die.”

He takes a sip of the lukewarm beverage, while Gerard’s frown gradually transforms into an expression of mild alarm. “What – what do you mean?”

Frank just shakes his head shortly and looks away, not really seeing the point in discussing something so obvious. He can’t die and that’s the never-ending end he just happens to hate. His unwillingness to respond leaves Gerard struggling with the following moment of awkward silence on his own.

“So, uhm, what do you do?” he then asks, switching topics and trying his best to get some kind of half-decent conversation going. “Like, for a living.” His eyebrows arch slightly along with his question, something which makes him look both surprised and innocent all at once. He seems so trustworthy and perfectly genuine it’s almost annoying.

“Nothing.” Frank shrugs a shoulder, tracing his fingertip along the papery edge of his cup. “I get a monthly amount from my folks.”

“Oh.” Gerard nods, a torn expression on his face. “That’s… that’s nice of them.”

Frank is about to say that ‘nice’ is one way to put it, but instead he takes another gulp of dishwater coffee and demonstratively keeps his mouth shut.

“I’m an architect.” Gerard is determined to carry on, even if it’s just going to be a monologue. “I’m on a team that’s working on a new office building downtown, you know, right next to Augusta Park? I’m pretty excited about it,” he adds, and there’s real enthusiasm reflected in his eyes. “It’s gonna look awesome once it’s done.”

“Okay,” Frank says, in lack of anything better. “Cool.”

“Yeah, it’s perfect. And I’m kinda giving back to the community this way, by drawing and building stuff. Since I accidentally ruin a lot of things on a daily basis, I mean.”

“And you’re a wannabe crime fighter by night.” Frank raises a half-critical eyebrow at him. “Sounds like you’re trying to be a saint.”

Gerard just fends off his sour sarcasm with a sheepish grin, before he throws a quick glance at his watch. “Shit, I have to go. I parked my car a few blocks from here and I don’t want anything to happen to it. Thanks for the company, Frank,” he says, nodding awkwardly in his direction. “It was real nice meeting you.”

“Yeah,” Frank mumbles, a strange feeling of relief and disappointment settling in his stomach. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Uhm… I’d really like to get to know you better though,” Gerard continues unsurely, his fingers picking at the frayed edge of his cup. “How about lunch? Tomorrow? If you want?”

Frank shoves his hands into his pockets, hit by a dull feeling of discomfort. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was dreading this moment all along; not because of Gerard’s polite persistency, but because he’s suddenly faced with a kind of hesitation he’s not sure how to deal with. However his reply is cut off by a sharp wolf whistle.

“You out with your boyfriend, faggot?”

The usual gang of wannabe thugs has of course noticed them. They’re approaching their spot in a threatening half-circle, five or six identical delinquents with absent fathers and a non-existent future. The tallest of them takes a step closer and nods at Gerard, who’s looking back at them with a puzzled smile.

“I like what you got there, man,” the boy claims, his hand hovering close to his pocket and his eyes trained on Gerard’s wristwatch.

In that very moment Frank is dead fucking sure the kid is going to flip out a knife, ninja his way forward and stab Gerard in the guts. For a split-second his thoughts are wrestling a decisive battle between taking the blow or just stand there and watch, but Gerard’s uncovered the boy’s intentions before anyone can do even anything. He reaches out and grabs him by the wrist, something which instantly makes the boy’s face contract in sheer agony.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he says, sounding perfectly calm while his grip tightens ever so slightly. “I suggest you and your buddies get the hell out of here, unless you want me to pinch your fucking hand off.”

At this point the boy has sunk down on his knees, eyes watering and mouth dropped open in a silent cry. His trapped fingers are curled up in a convulsive claw and behind him the rest of the group is retreating, an identical look of confusion mirrored in their faces. When Gerard finally releases his arm the boy’s face is bright red and his forehead is cluttered with beads of sweat. He cradles his arm against his chest and lets out a terrified sob as he scrambles to his feet.

Frank stares, watching the gang scamper away. “Did you just break that kid’s arm?”

“He’s lucky I didn’t. Fucking punk had it coming though.” Gerard runs his hand through his hair and turns around, looking a little embarrassed. “So, uhm, how about that lunch?”

Frank still hasn’t got a clue as to what this whole thing is supposed to mean. The past half an hour has been nothing but unexpected. It would probably be fitting to experience some kind of revelation and think that Gerard, with his annoying perfection, is some kind of heaven-sent savior. But for all Frank knows Gerard could be completely off-center, and maybe that’s what makes him nod before his mind is even fully made up.

“Yeah,” he says. “Why not.”

Gerard looks at him with a smile that’s both surprised and unsure, but when Frank just nods again as an extra reassurement, he reaches into his pocket.

“Alright, why don’t you meet me at the site tomorrow,” he begins as he searches through his wallet. “And if you can’t find me… call me.” The suggestion is handed to him along with a business card.

The print formally reads ‘Hargreeves Architecture | Urban Planning and Design’, and the letters are boxed in by lines and colors crisscrossing into some kind of minimalistic logo. The smaller text beneath it lists Gerard’s name and phone number. Frank bites his lip, his thumb brushing over the smooth surface.

“Okay,” he simply agrees.

Gerard grins widely. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

***

The next day Frank is staring up at the tall barrier fence surrounding the construction site next to Augusta Park. The previous night had been filled with a cluster of thoughts butting their stubborn heads against each other, and the final decision of whether or not to meet Gerard for lunch had mostly gone down with Frank as a detached spectator. At one point during this internal match he’d dozed off, and when he woke up again the whole thing was over. The prevailing thought seemed to be the one that told him to go – and now here he is.

He sticks his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and takes a stroll around the closed-off site. It looks like a fairly ambitious project, with monster machines guarding the area and a tall labyrinth of scaffolding cutting in across the skyline. He stops and listens to the excavators rumbling in the unseen background, wondering where the hell he’s supposed to enter the place.

He’s halfway made it to the other side when he happens to spot Gerard through the heavy bars. His bright yellow safety helmet is easily noticed and he’s got a couple of rolled-up blueprints tucked underneath his arm. He’s engaged in a discussion with an elderly man who appears to be some kind of contractor, and Frank catches them just as they part ways. Gerard unrolls one of the prints and remains on the spot for a little while, lost in the lines and calculations of his own work, until he finally looks up.

The expression on his face clearly says that he hadn’t expected him to show up at all. When Frank greets him with an awkward wave he grins and signals for him to wait, before hurrying towards the portacabins lined up along the fence. Less than a minute later he returns, having discarded his drawings and his safety helmet.

“Frank – hey!” He threads his fingers through his messy hair and exits through a makeshift opening in the fence. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Had nothing better to do,” Frank mutters.

Gerard tucks his lip underneath his teeth and bites back a smile. “Alright,” he just says, glancing at his watch. “Let’s go out to lunch.”

He’s picked out one of the nicer downtown restaurants, which is only a walking distance from the construction site. It’s one of those dimly lit and dignified places, where voices never seem to exceed a certain level and where it feels like you’ve got half the restaurant to yourself, despite the place always being full.

They’re given a table by the window which feels as private as a cubicle even though it’s not. Frank takes in the sight of the folded napkin beside his plate and the fresh flowers on the table, before evaluating the knees of his torn jeans in contrast to Gerard’s business casual. If he’d cared enough to feel stupid then this would definitely be the moment.

“Okay, so this is my treat.” Gerard looks up from the menu. “Pick whatever you like.”

“I don’t want anything, thanks,” Frank says with a shake of his head, something which earns him an incredulous look.

“Really? You’re not gonna eat anything?”

“Comes with the territory.”

While they wait for Gerard’s prawn salad and Frank’s glass of seltzer, Gerard kills time rambling on about his job and his projects. Frank pretends to pay attention, encouraging Gerard’s moving lips and gesticulating hands with the occasional nod. The guy talks an awful fucking lot, that’s for sure. Whether it’s thanks to nature or nerves, Frank can’t tell. However, by the time their order arrives the one-way conversation has gradually faded into the buzzing of voices and clatter of cutlery surrounding them.

After a short while of silence Gerard stops pushing the remaining bits of cherry tomatoes and cucumber slices around on his plate. “The world isn’t built for people like me,” he says randomly, and throws a thoughtful glance out the window.

The unexpected change of topic makes Frank tear his eyes away from the dying bubbles of his drink. The midday sun cuts through the wide swirls of invisible dust and falls on Gerard’s face. It leaves small freckles of light in the dark shades of his hair and loops around the hazel color of his eyes.

“I can break things that should be physically impossible to break. It’s annoying as hell.” He shakes his head with a short-lived smile. “I hardly ever mean it though.”

“Kinda like you didn’t mean that?”

Gerard follows Frank’s gaze and looks down, and his puzzled frown is quickly replaced by a fierce shade of pink. The fork in his hand has gone crooked, his clenched fist having unintentionally transformed it into an elegantly curved piece of steel.

“Shit.” He snorts a laugh and hides the utensil underneath the table, trying to force it back into its original shape. “This is actually my fucking problem right here. If I don’t pay attention to stuff I literally ruin them.”

He carefully puts the bulky fork away. The friendly expression Frank has come to know has been overshadowed by something else, a transparent look of haunted bitterness that seems like it’s been there all along, he just never noticed. He watches him in silence, waiting for a continuation of this sudden confession.

“I can fine-tune my strength pretty accurately,” Gerard admits. “It just won’t work unless I’m one hundred percent focused. I have to plan all those things people take for granted.”

“What do you mean?”

It’s no more than the second or third full sentence Frank has uttered during the lunch, not to mention the entire day, and his voice sounds like an intrusive interruption.

“It’s just the little things.” Gerard shrugs and fixes his eyes on the ruined fork. “Being in a hurry, pushing through a crowd, slamming a door, holding someone’s hand – I can’t do anything automatically because I’ll break something for sure. No wonder I suck at relationships,” he adds, attempting to twist his statement into a lighthearted joke.

Frank’s thoughts jumps back to cute Burger Joint Charlie; he doesn’t know if that’s what he’s talking about, but either way it sounds like the guy is struggling. Come to think of it, they’re not all that different; just like the world takes advantage of Frank’s detachment and passes him by, Gerard is too busy keeping himself in check to truly be a part of it. He’s forced to stay trapped within the confinements of his own strength. It’s understandable that he chooses to chase down petty criminals in his spare time. That’s probably the closest he’ll ever get to therapy.

“I’m sorry, man,” Frank says, hoping that the corner of his mouth is pulled up in a half-smile that looks compassionate enough. “Guess things are a lot more fragile than they seem.”

“Yeah…” Gerard nods slowly, a faraway expression on his face. He remains lost in his own thoughts for a few seconds until it finally seems to dawn on him where he is; he pulls himself back to the present looking slightly shocked. “I’m obviously the one who should be sorry,” he replies, quickly regaining his smile. “I didn’t mean to start a fucking pity party.”

Frank just shrugs and mutters something about how he doesn’t mind. Then he tilts his head at the upside-down dial of Gerard’s wristwatch. “Lunch is over in five minutes,” he informs him, the feeling of mixed relief and disappointment from yesterday once again nudging him in the ribs.

“… and I can’t be in a hurry.” Gerard nods, a smile spreading across his lips. “You’re right.”

A void of silence follows them all the way until they’re standing outside the restaurant, where hesitation settles between them for a moment. Frank shifts his attention onto something that seems easier and starts picking the plastic off of a new pack of cigarettes. He offers Gerard one, who shakes his head and quietly states that he’s quit smoking.

“Okay…” Frank plays absently with his lighter, not sure how these meetings are supposed to be ended. “Don’t let me keep you or anything.”

“You wanna hang out some time?”

The unrelated question seems to slip, almost accidentally, out of Gerard’s mouth, and it’s so sudden that it even seems to surprise himself. The blushing expression on his face says it’s nothing he wants more than to take the question back and rephrase it, but since it’s already out there he presses his lips together and leaves it unanswered.

Frank narrows his eyes at him, deep-rooted pessimism immediately reporting to his consciousness. “Hang out and do what?” he asks suspiciously.

“Uhm…” Another shade of light red spreads rapidly across Gerard’s forehead. “We could go out?”

“Out?”

“Well… Yeah.” He moves uncomfortably, both bothered and hopeful. “I have a deadline to meet this week so I’ll be holed up in my office, but… how about next Saturday?”

Apart from the lunch they just had Frank can’t imagine going anywhere with Gerard. Where would they go and what would they do? What the fuck would they talk about? Besides, to hang out sounds like something normal people do and there’s no denying that they’re both freaks. Why even dwell on it?

The next thing that drops into Frank’s head is a counterargument that asks Why not?, something which makes him roll his eyes at himself. He knows all too well that he can’t make up his mind without his mind having the final say on its own. Maybe he’s tried to kill himself one time too many and now his brain is completely fucked.

Why not? he thinks again, like a delayed echo. Even if he does refuse he’s got a feeling this isn’t the last he’s seen of Gerard. At the very least he won’t have to worry about having Cora on his door; she tends to get extra annoying during the weekends.

“Fine,” he says sourly, accepting the stuttering invitation with a shrug. “Next Saturday it is.”

Part Three  
Gerard’s apartment building is an ordinary brick construction with identical double windows, boxy balconies and a symmetrical crisscross of two descending fire escapes. There’s nothing exclusive about it, although compared to the neglected construction skeletons of the Hellhole it looks close to a mansion.

Frank lingers on the opposite side of the street for a few minutes, halfway concealed behind a hot dog stand. He fixes his eyes on the windows of the top floor, where Gerard supposedly lives according to his directions. The lights are on, the curtains are white, and there’s a single potted plant on display in the window. The place looks inviting, at least from a distance.

Frank skulks around in the shadows for a little while longer, debating whether or not he should have a quick smoke just for the sake of playing for time, but playing for time isn’t going to get him out of anything. Ultimately he digs his hands into his pockets and reluctantly crosses the street.

The small lobby itself is evidence of a different and more polite inner city culture, where it’s not normal to ruin the walls with your worthless graffiti art or expect a sleeping hobo curled up underneath your mailbox in the morning. The cheap but civilized standard of the building hints towards a certain kind of community where everyone pitches in with a smile, no matter what. Every little bit helps and so on. Frank glares at the perfectly functioning elevator and the thriving palm tree standing next to it, before he trudges up the staircase.

On his way through the top floor he’s being slowed down by brief children’s laughter, faint sound effects from a video game, as well as the smell of spicy curry. They all originate from different sources and he realizes that there’s life behind every door he passes. Frank has to stop for a moment in an attempt to sort through the muffled sounds surrounding him. Instead of yelling drunks and screaming girlfriends he can hear fractions of civilized conversations and random guitar play. It’s literally like stepping into a different world and he isn’t sure how comfortable that makes him feel. To an outsider there’s nothing more threatening than the dark waters of a tight and harmonious community. The dangers of the Hellhole are horrible, yes, but at least he’s got a pretty good grasp on those.

He’s halfway down the corridor when a door opens up and Gerard’s messy head appears. His face lights up at the sight of him and he waves, as if Frank hasn’t noticed him already. The way he smiles makes him wonder if he even makes distinctions between people or if he just welcomes every visitor in the same way, regardless of whether it’s his neighbors or his parents or fucking Jehova’s Witnesses.

“I thought I saw you standing outside!” Gerard gestures for him to come inside, before he surrenders himself to a rambling speech that leaves no room for replies. “Sure took you a while to get up here though! Did you take the stairs? Didn’t you see the elevator? Or is it out of order maybe? I’m sorry about that, it happens from time to time. Anyway, I wanted to invite you in for a drink or something before we leave, you know, it’s a bit early to go out yet and – oh, let me get that for you.”

Frank has hardly shrugged his jacket off before it’s snatched away from him and tucked neatly between expensive-looking coats and leather. The sight of his old denim hanging there is pretty much a symbol of how utterly different the two of them are. It’s Gerard’s black shirt and perfectly fitted jeans against the frayed appearance of Frank’s thrown-together outfit. It’s Gerard’s Good Citizen philosophy against Frank’s waste of an existence. It would have been comedy gold hadn’t it been for the fact that they’re both freaks. Although that is a joke too, come to think of it.

He trails wordlessly after Gerard and subconsciously compares the new surroundings to the dingy hole he lives in. It’s obvious that the interior doesn’t match what he had expected. Not that he’d already established a clear-cut idea about Gerard’s living conditions, but at the end of the day the man is an architect on a large scale. To put structures and constructions on the city map is different from designing a living room, and that kind of big, futuristic thinking doesn’t always convert easily to someone’s personal life. Honestly, Frank had thought his place to be somewhat messy and unorganized, but as he moves further into the apartment it turns out that he was wrong.

He’s met with an architectural preference for elegant minimalism mixed in with the simple decorative thinking of a bachelor. The walls have been painted in a combination of different dark shades that seems to extend and brighten throughout the majority of the space. The kitchen is joined with the living room, something which makes the place look much bigger than it is; everything from the narrow barstools by the bench to the mounted television set is practical and space saving. Frank is pretty sure a grand piano could fit in there without anybody noticing the difference.

There’s a moment of awkward silence that’s abruptly terminated by Gerard’s cell phone. He reaches into his pocket with a sigh and frowns at the display. “Okay, I really have to get this. Just, uh –” he gesticulates randomly into the room, “just make yourself at home!”

He disappears into what’s most likely his study and Frank hovers quietly in that general area for a little while, sacrificing half an ear to absent eavesdropping. It’s a work-related conversation; he catches a few nonsense words and phrases before he disconnects from the architectural jargon with a slight roll of his eyes.

He tucks his hands into his pockets and looks around. The unfamiliar smell of somebody else’s home is gradually settling in him; it’s a curiously mixed scent of wood, inked paper and an unspecified sweetness, and whenever he’s close to the kitchen it’s interspersed with recent hints of a quick take-away dinner. It’s pleasant and homely, so unlike the lingering odor of cigarettes and garbage that he’s used to.

Frank wanders through the living room, noting the presence of a few displayed photographs and a couple of unknown art pieces, before he eventually stops in front of a large bookshelf. It’s subtly incorporated into the wall and contains a variety of different books, most of which includes ‘architecture’ or ‘illustration’ in the title. The lower shelves are occupied by a good handful of movies; there are a number of obscure horror films, a complete Star Wars-collection, everything by Tim Burton, and a few heavy binders that immediately grabs Frank’s attention. He leans down and peers at the handwritten labels, quickly realizing that they’re containing several comic book issues. He picks one at random and leafs through the plastic pockets; Morrison, Gaiman and Lee are all represented, along with a plethora of names he’s never even heard of.

Organized geekery, he thinks with an amused snort. On the highest fucking level.

Gerard’s voice is still a muffled murmur in the background as Frank makes his way towards the display of photographs at the other side of the room. Most of them appear to be of Gerard’s family, as well as a few monumental buildings that he’s probably helped design. However, the customary snapshots from adventurous and romantic holidays are all absent. There are certainly no portraits of Burger Joint Charlie – or any other girls for that matter.

The only picture Frank finds remotely interesting is one of Gerard holding a baby. The kid’s nothing short of a newborn, wrapped in a light blue blanket and blissfully asleep, while Gerard looks like a deer caught dead in the headlights. He’s about to take a closer look when there’s a click of a doorknob and Gerard emerges from his study.

“So sorry about that,” he says, visibly annoyed. “I thought work was over for the weekend but apparently I was wrong.”

Frank points at the photograph. “You keep this one in a drawer or something?”

Gerard frowns at the random question for a moment. Then he tucks his phone away with a small laugh and walks over to him. “Oh, that. That little dude is my nephew.”

“You look fuckin’ terrified.”

“Yeah, well… Try holding a baby when you’re like me.” Gerard’s voice drops into a defensive mutter and the smile disappears from his face. “I had nightmares for weeks about accidentally crushing him to death.” He hesitates, a fleeting trace of sadness visible in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve seen him more than three times since he was born. Pretty sure I’m gonna become that distant uncle who ships birthday presents in the mail but doesn’t bother showing up in person. I don’t really have a choice.”

He’s lost to a few seconds of thoughtful silence. At last he makes his way towards the kitchen and the fridge. “You want a drink?”

Frank declines with a “No thanks” and moves over to inspect the art pieces on the wall.

“I have wine?” Gerard’s out-of-sight suggestions are accompanied by the muffled jingling of bottles. “Or beer, if that’s what you prefer?”

“I don’t need anything.”

“Are you sure?” Gerard shows up again behind the kitchen counter, holding up a bottle of red wine and a bottle of beer, as though trying to show him what he’s missing out on.

Frank sighs quietly. “It won’t do anything for me, so I don’t see the point.”

It takes Gerard a couple of beats before it dawns on him what he actually means. “Seriously?” He stares at him, his expression opened up in pure surprise. “Regeneration messes with that too?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Damn.”

Judging from the rapidly spreading roses on his cheeks it’s obvious that having a few drinks prior to going out was Gerard’s plan to calm his nerves and take the edge off. He nods slowly and puts the bottles away on the counter, looking lost for a moment, before he changes his mind and grabs for the beer.

“I hope you don’t mind if I…” He completes the sentence by gesturing awkwardly at the bottle in his hand.

Frank just shakes his head and tells him to go ahead; it’s his beer anyway. In the back of his mind he thinks it’s probably a good thing that one of them stays sober.

***

Gerard has picked out one of the more popular clubs the city has to offer, one that’s fairly hip but not strictly exclusive. You can sweeten any bouncer with a decent amount of money. A bag of coke is also as good as any VIP-card. There are several loopholes to a good time if you’re skinny enough to slip through them.

As they wait in line Frank thinks there’s something familiar about the neon sign blinking down at them and he soon realizes that he’s been to this exact place before. He doesn’t say anything about it because Gerard seems happy to keep the conversation alive on his own – and because Frank’s story involves blowing a random guy in one of the bathroom stalls for the convenient sake of extra cash. No need to add more weight to the awkwardness.

Gerard carefully cuts his way through the noisy club and offers to buy drinks, only to quickly take it back when Frank stabs him an annoyed glare as a reminder. He settles on a single beer for himself and gives a slight nod towards the half-empty lounge. The seats are boxy and grey underneath the purple cushions, obviously meant to give off the sleek appearance of futuristic minimalism that’s really not as soft as it looks.

Once they’re seated Gerard leans in a little closer to make himself heard over the music. “It’s funny,” he begins with a wry smile, “but I actually don’t know anything about you.”

Frank rests his chin in his palm and shrugs. “Not much to say.”

“Well… Anybody know what you can do? Your folks?”

“Yeah, they know alright.” He lets out a curt laugh that comes off sounding as nothing but a bitter snort. “That’s why they give me money in the first place.”

Gerard frowns at him, his beer stopping before it reaches his lips. “What do you mean?”

Frank fixes his eyes on the ever-changing lightshow bouncing off of the dance floor. When he eventually starts talking it’s to the empty ashtray on the table. “I fell out of my bedroom window when I was eight. Not exactly the kind of stunt you wanna show off at a garden party but yeah, I broke my neck and split my arm open on the picket fence. I didn’t have a single scratch on me when we got to the hospital though, which was kinda the problem. Just lots of blood that my parents had to explain.” He shrugs again. “They’ve been freaked out by me ever since. Soon as I got old enough they started paying me to make sure I stayed away.”

For a second, Frank catches himself wishing he was lying. He’s never told his story to anyone before, but now that it’s been spelled out in actual words it does sound really bad. He’s pretty sure his relationship with his parents was great until the garden incident. After that they’ve sort of been reduced to a wealthy couple that he happens to unintentionally blackmail every month.

“Wow… Frank, I’m so sorry.” Gerard shoots him a look of genuine sympathy. “I guess… I guess they’re just scared. Or worried, maybe.”

“Whatever.” Frank leans back against the purple cushions with a scowl and starts picking absently at a loose thread in his t-shirt. “Couldn’t fucking stand them anyway.”

***

The social rituals going on at the club are the same as they’ve always been, weekend after weekend and year after year; the bar is swarming with scouting vultures and the dance floor is the place for first and second base, sometimes third. While listening to Gerard contently talk his way through another bottle of beer, Frank is pretty sure it’s just a matter of time before they get company. The vague thought has barely escaped him when one of the younger female scouts by the bar makes a determined move for their table.

“Hey, guys!”

She smiles at them as though she’s been their best friend for years and immediately sits down next to Gerard, who’s obviously the one she’s been targeting with her false eyelashes all along. She drapes her too fucking tall figure somewhat ungracefully over the cushions and introduces herself, loudly and obnoxiously, with a name Frank can’t be bothered to register. The small talk she initiates is pointless and unintelligent, accompanied by light touches that fits Gerard’s polite intoxication and made to crowd his space. Frank scowls at her short dress and the tacky Chinese symbol tattooed on her ankle, feeling slightly offended by the fact that he’s suddenly become so entirely invisible. Eventually he mutters an excuse that gets ignored and crosses the dance floor.

He ends up at the restrooms even though he’s got no business there. It’s a rectangular hole, drenched in bluish shadows. It adds a garish glow to everything that’s white and the place smells heavily of hand sanitizer, tinged with a lingering scent of piss and cheap champagne. It’s a concealed kind of public disgust that you can’t see unless you’re sober.

Frank enters one of the dimmed stalls, where there are promises and phone numbers scribbled across the tiles, slightly highlighted by a fluorescent spatter from a recent restroom quickie. The sight reminds him somewhat of the guy he blew; he had called himself Paris. He was fairly young and handsome, just another messed up rich kid with clammy hands and cocaine nostrils. He was also funny in the way he kept claiming that he wasn’t gay, even with his dick hitting the back of Frank’s throat and even with his own come smeared across Frank’s lips. Fair enough. The excuse would have been plausible if only Paris hadn’t revealed himself to be a common John Jr. in real life. As far as Frank can judge there’s no straight hope for a guy who renames himself ‘Paris’ out of free choice. It wasn’t like he had a Helen of Troy accompanying him either – unless said Helen was a Henry in drag.

He backs out of the stall and turns to look at the blue outline of his reflection in the mirror. His life is random and people are more or less idiots, kind of like Gerard and Whatsername. Kind of like himself. Because what’s he even doing out here? What was he thinking – or not thinking – when he said yes to this ‘hangout’? It’s pointless and ridiculous and it definitely doesn’t change anything. Frank is still going to keep blowing his brains out and the world is still going to end up as a skipping blur, regardless of Gerard’s presence or not.

The first thing he sees when he eventually emerges from the restrooms is that Gerard has managed to attract a small variety of female company. That’s not a wonder in itself; he is pretty good-looking and ripped out of his fucking mind, and right now he isn’t seeing straight enough to be picky.

You goddamned fucking idiot, Frank thinks with a heavy sigh.

Gerard is perched on the edge of the couch, his hands gripping his thighs with whatever’s left of his self-restraint, and Frank knows it’s only a matter of time before he slips completely under the influence and a horrible accident occurs. He had decided to leave but it’s obvious that he can’t do that now. If Gerard somehow ends up in bed with either of these cheap girls he’s going to regret it deeply in the morning. Not because they’re downright ugly but because he might risk waking up to a massive bloodbath. So much for one-night stands and hangover paranoia.

Frank huffs and skulks over to the lounge. “Okay, Casanova.” He gives Gerard’s arm a nudge and points in the general direction of the exit. “I think it’s time to go.”

“But I was talking to these lovely – uhm –” Gerard gestures into the air, as though looking for an appropriate word to adequately describe his mediocre company.

“You can do a lot better,” Frank deadpans, blankly ignoring the offended glares he receives from the girls. “Come on.”

Gerard is the kind of drunk you don’t realize is actually drunk before he gets to his feet, but he walks in a sufficiently straight line and complies easily to Frank’s guiding nudges, despite himself. He falls quiet on their careful way out and Frank hopes that this thoughtful muteness doesn’t mean he’s going to be sick. On their way down the street Gerard keeps leaning clumsily on Frank while an increasingly annoyed Frank keeps telling him to not fucking do it. Another couple of irritable minutes have to pass before Gerard regains some of his balance, the cool night air helping him sober up a little.

“Short-cut through here,” Frank says after a while and takes a turn down a narrow alley.

The sudden change of direction doesn’t register with Gerard, who stumbles and bumps into him instead. He lets out a high-pitched laugh that almost passes as a giggle, before he receives another angry shove.

“Can you fucking control yourself?” Frank snaps, stopping to wait as his temporarily dislocated shoulder crawls back into place. The impact wasn’t very violent but a half-drunken Gerard is apparently the equivalent of a crazy mammoth trying to navigate through the world’s smallest porcelain shop.

“God, I’m sorry.” He sways a little and extends his arm, wanting to give Frank an apologetic squeeze, but he changes his mind when he seems to realize what that involves. “I’m really sorry,” he repeats, staring at him. “I – I’m just drunk.”

“No shit, Superman,” Frank mutters sourly and pointlessly rubs his shoulder. “You’re fucking lucky you’re with me or you’d be calling the ambulance right now.”

They remain standing there in the darkness. Gerard is staring at him with unblinking eyes, his lips moving like he wants to say something although he’s not producing any speech. In the end Frank sighs and stalks quickly down the alley, although he doesn’t get very far before Gerard shouts for him to wait.

“What’s your problem?” Frank glances over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “You suddenly afraid of the dark now?”

The other man wrings his hands nervously and looks around, apparently debating something with himself, before he finally heads after him. Frank shakes his head and is about to turn around again when Gerard interrupts his move and wordlessly presses his lips against his.

It’s a sloppy, wet kiss, one that almost misses Frank’s mouth and lands on his cheek instead. There’s no room for protests or rejections before Gerard adjusts himself and seeks out his lips again. Frank can feel his hands move up to his shoulders and the kiss becomes more insistent. It’s not until he squeezes his arms a little too hard that he abruptly pulls away.

“I – I can’t do this to you,” he utters breathlessly. “I’m gonna end up killing you if I…” The rest of his sentence is cut off and he takes a step back, his chest heaving.

Frank can hardly see Gerard’s face in the darkness but he can tell that his mouth has parted and that he’s looking extremely flustered, as though his previous half-finished sentence startled him. He looks like he just gave audible words to a private thought, something that was meant to stay hidden but slipped off his mind and spilled into the open anyway. He keeps staring at him through the shadows, his hazel eyes wide in his face.

“Uhm, okay…” Frank begins, not sure what he’s supposed to say. “You obviously don’t remember that I can’t be killed.”

“Right,” Gerard says stupidly, like he’s actually forgotten about that. A frown appears between his eyes, something that makes him look even more confused. “I was just thinking…” he begins slowly. “I mean, would you be interested in –? You know… Would you mind if we – or if I –?”

He seems to have lost the ability to form proper sentences but Frank knows exactly what he’s trying to say. It’s not that he minds the dirty alley or the clumsy proposal or Gerard’s current state or even Gerard himself, but Frank doubts this is going to amount to very much. By experience, this will most likely prove to be completely pointless. At the same time Gerard’s boundaries have been removed and he’s consequently so overwhelmed that he doesn’t know what to do. He looks unfamiliar and desperate and Frank has to admit that he feels a little sorry for him. It must be awful having to hold back with every single thing you do. The guy can hardly even eat his fucking meal without breaking something.

“You wanna fuck me,” Frank states bluntly, spelling out the request Gerard is struggling with. “That’s what you want, right?” He bites his lip for a thoughtful moment, thinking that this is actually kind of comical, and without waiting for a response he gives a shrug and starts unbuttoning his jeans. “I guess you won’t be in a more convenient situation ever again,” he adds as he backs further into the shadows.

In his still vaguely intoxicated state, Gerard needs a second to catch up. “You mean –?”

“Jesus Christ, you are dense.” Frank rolls his hands in a halfhearted gesture. “I’m giving you full permission here, you idiot. Fuck me.”

Gerard’s mouth drops open in a mix of pure surprise and hesitant anticipation. He throws one more glance at their empty surroundings before he grabs him by the shoulder and flips him around. For the third or fourth time that night Frank can feel the tendons in his shoulder briefly snap and then instantly reattach. He proceeds to push him against the cracked brick wall, the clumsy clatter of a belt buckle following.

Frank stares into the nondescript darkness, just waiting for Gerard’s hands to appear at his waistline and tug his jeans down or something, but he never seems to get there. He moves impatiently, with that trying to make it obvious that this is taking too damn long. At last he glances over his shoulder, just in time to see Gerard stick two fingers into his mouth while frantically searching his pockets for what he can only assume is a condom. The guy’s cock is literally butting head against his zipper already but here he is looking for a condom he most likely hasn’t even got.What the hell.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Gerard’s head snaps back up, his fingers still stuck between his lips and his other hand halfway pried into his left pocket. Together with the puzzled look on his face he looks like he’s been snatched right out of a scene in some stereotypical high school movie where the main character’s geeky best friend is finally going to have sex for the first time.

“You wanna prep me? Seriously?” Frank snorts, throwing his arms up in the air. “If your dick is what finally kills me then being safe isn’t gonna make a fucking difference, is it?”

The darkened figure looming behind him stills for a moment, staring back at Frank’s annoyed expression. Then he nods quickly and turns his attention back to his crotch, a couple of muttered “oh, right, right” and an additional “of course” escaping him. His hand tugs at his fly and he comically wiggles his hips in order to ease his jeans further down to his knees. Gerard lets out a shivering sigh as he takes a moment to wrap his fingers around himself and Frank sneaks another look at him, watching the dull complexion of his flushed face through the shadows.

He turns away again when Gerard’s soft hands moves past his hips and trails around his waist. They sneak up underneath his shirt and run over his chest and stomach with surprising gentleness, before they make their way further beneath the waistband of his boxers. Frank quietly wonders if this constitutes as foreplay or if it is just building up under something more. He’s seen his strength in action but he assumes it has to be different when sexual desire is part of the picture. Sex always changes things, flicks a switch in people’s brains that simply makes everything different. He actually has no clue how strong the guy really is or what he’s even agreed to.

Gerard’s mouth and the tip of his nose appear next to his ear, his breath hot and uneven and his body weighing heavily against his back. Frank peers down at his own exposed crotch and notices that his cock has perked up. It’s leaning, almost expectantly, against his abdomen, as if it’s just waiting for him to jack off. He stifles a sigh; his body is responding like it should while his brain just makes an absent remark about it.

Gerard’s hands move back to his hips, his warm breath disappearing as he pulls away from his ear. Then there’s the first angling movement before he slowly enters him with a soft groan. Frank keeps quiet, mentally searching his body for signs of pleasure while knowing that Gerard is buried all the way to the hilt. Still there really is nothing more to it than the cold bricks against his cheek and the stressed out panting behind him. All of it is captured within the dirty dark of the alley, a vague sensation of absolute nothingness.

Frank leans his forehead against the ragged surface and looks down at his crotch again, which is being boldly responsive on its own. He looks ready but he can’t tell for sure simply because he can’t feel it. His own dick is basically teasing him.

Great, he thinks, slight disappointment settling in the pit of his stomach. I bet a goddamn paraplegic has it better than this.

“Is that it?” The words trail past his lips before he even gets to give it a second thought.

Gerard abruptly stops moving. “I… I’ve hardly done anything yet,” he says defensively, his hesitant hands moving away from Frank’s hips. “Are you always this impatient?”

“Are you always this insecure?” he bites back and glares at him over his shoulder.

“You know I am,” Gerard mutters, and for a brief second he actually sounds a little hurt.

Frank closes his eyes for a moment, realizing too late that it wasn’t the most considerate thing he could have told the friendly neighborhood Hulk. “Look, if you’re afraid of hurting me then don’t be. It’s not just something I’m saying, okay? You literally can’t hurt me,” he adds in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. “There’s no reason for you to hold back.”

“Okay,” Gerard breathes faintly, and there’s another moment of hesitation before his palms presses against his skin again. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll, uh, I’ll remember that.” He pauses for another second. “I – I’m gonna carry on now.”

“Whenever you’re ready, Romeo,” Frank mumbles, swallowing back the sarcasm in his words.

Gerard starts moving his hips again; hesitantly and unsteadily at first, like he’s completely incapable of settling into a rhythm he’s comfortable with. If he continues like that Frank is pretty sure he’s going to end up aborting the entire mission because this surely can’t be doing much for him. After another couple of unsure thrusts he stops, adjusting his body again and gripping his hips more firmly. Something that sounds like an encouraging “okay” passes through his lips and disappears into the darkness like a fleeting ghost.

Frank steadies himself and tilts his head slightly as Gerard finally falls into a steady rhythm. He can hear how air is sucked in between his teeth and how his breath hitches in his throat, and for a few seconds Frank does nothing but focus on the sound of their clashing skin. The boy is slowly gaining some confidence back there, judging from his clutching hands and loud groans. Frank squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could actually feel what his companion obviously feels. It’s a relatively rough fuck and he really wants his share of the deal, for once.

Gerard’s throat chokes out a faint guttural sound, something that sounds like a whimper and a sigh mashed together, and Frank’s eyes snap open when he receives a sudden push out of nowhere. The harsh impact forces a soft gasp out of him and as he’s driven even harder up against the wall, his dick is caught in a temporary skin-and-brick prison. Gerard’s fingers are digging into his bare hips and in between the thrusts Frank can clearly tell how the tendons beneath his skin are being pulled free from their respective bones. If his body didn’t respond as quickly as it does he’s sure he would’ve been torn to pieces already. It feels like he’s just barely holding on.

No wonder Gerard always holds back. God fucking help him if he doesn’t.

Gerard runs one hand through Frank’s hair, fist closing tightly around the root of his bangs and then pulling his head back. His breath ghosts wordlessly over his ear, soft lips grazing his earlobe, before his open mouth moves further down his neck. In the next moment Frank is shoved forward again and his chest collides with the wall; it causes a couple of bones in his ribcage to snap, loudly and clean off, like they’re nothing but a bunch of dry twigs. Small wet pools are forming on the front of his shirt, warm drops of blood that has managed to break through his skin before the wounds closed.

It feels like he’s on the very brink of being ripped completely apart and in that moment his brain is overtaken by a sudden influx of sensations; in between the sharp peaks of pain there’s the dullest reoccurring wave of the opposite, of something that makes his back arch and his gut soar. It’s something he instinctively wants more of, and the harder Gerard fucks him the more intense it gets.

Frank closes his eyes and his fingers are seeking out his crotch on their own account. A moan tears away from his throat and without being fully aware of it he actively bucks his hips back, trying his best to meet the thrusts. A series of unintelligible muttered words escapes Gerard’s lips; he tugs him back and then bucks into him even harder, and Frank could have sworn that something cracked in his fucking spine. He’s squeezed up against the wall and then pulled back in an erratic, repetitive pattern, and he can’t even get a single word out because his breath keeps getting stuck in his throat. An intense pressure has begun circling the very pit of his stomach, creating a feeling that’s forcing its way further to his groin and settling at the base of his cock, and Frank couldn’t be any less bothered with his physical state.

He fists his hand tightly around his shaft, the friction of skin against skin actually starting to create something he can’t even remember having felt, ever. The workings of his wrist are thrown off rhythm and Frank lets out a half-desperate whimper, something which Gerard seems to pick up on somehow. He slows down and his lips appear next to his ear again.

“Frank,” he whispers, his voice breathless and ragged. “Frank – come on.” His arm reaches around his waist and his palm pushes lightly against his fist, moving together with his strokes.

“If you rip my fucking dick off I’m gonna kill you,” Frank snaps as he feels Gerard’s thumb briefly flick over the swollen head. “I swear to Go–ohhhfuck.”

The rest of his angry warning drowns in a series of additional curses as he explodes all over his hand, spilling himself over Gerard’s knuckles as well as his own.

Normally, Frank would never take any notice of an orgasm. He always comes but honestly it’s just a bodily thing, a mere response to something else. Common physical courtesy. He could just as well have fucking sneezed. But right now, with his damp hair clinging to his forehead and the back of his shirt soaked with sweat, Frank realizes he hasn’t ever come that hard in his entire life. He hasn’t even felt anything that intensely before. This trumps blowing his brains out, by far.

The aftershock is still coursing through his body when Gerard’s rhythm falls out completely; it turns into a bunch of hard, determined thrusts that doesn’t leave Frank with any other choice but to hug the wall. Only seconds later he completes with a chain of jumbled profanities slipping past his lips, and he clings so tightly onto Frank’s waist that it nearly leaves him lightheaded.

For a while their heavy synchronized breathing is the only sound cutting through the muted darkness. Frank rests his forehead against the dirty bricks in front of him and suddenly becomes aware of a bunch of other noises that have previously been blocked out of his consciousness. It’s like he’s hearing things for the first time; the distant sirens, the loud music played a few blocks away, the cars passing by the alley. It’s like a bubble bursting and slowly melting away.

In the end Gerard pulls out of him and his arms slip away from Frank’s waist, followed by the hesitant clatter of a belt buckle. The weight against his back disappears, allowing the chilly night air to creep underneath his jacket and sweep across the damp surface of his shirt. Frank is about to tug his jeans up when Gerard lets out a sharp gasp.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes, a slightly horrified tone in his voice. “Shit.”

Frank’s first thought is that some poor homeless fucker has managed to stumble across them and is now faced with a generous view of his bare ass, but when he turns around he only finds Gerard staring back at him. It isn’t until he throws a downward glance at himself that Frank understands why. The front of his shirt is cluttered with a random pattern of red patches, while some blood is slowly making its way in a crooked trail down his thighs.

Gerard puts his hands up and his eyes widen when the dull shadows reveals the slight stains on his palms and fingertips. “Oh God,” he stammers, his lip quivering. “Frank, I –”

“Hey, relax,” Frank interrupts him and hastily pulls his jeans back up. “It’s not as bad as it looks, okay. It’s not even bad.” He lifts his shirt, showing him that his chest is completely unharmed despite everything. “Look – I’m totally fine. I patch up quickly.”

“You’re fucking bleeding –”

“No, seriously. I’m okay.” Frank nods insistently. “I promise.” When Gerard keeps staring at him, his cheeks flushed and his lips pale, he puts forward the suggestion of following him back to his apartment. “I mean, you’re still kinda drunk and you probably –”

“No, I’m good,” Gerard says quickly and shakes his head, dark hair falling limply into his face. “I, uh, I’ve sobered up now. I’m fine,” he insists, despite looking anything but fine.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” His headshake drops into a short nod. “I… Thanks for – for coming with me tonight.”

Frank doesn’t even get to form a suitable response before Gerard backs into a one-eighty and darts down the narrow alley. He can only wordlessly watch his unsteady shadow as it moves further out of sight and eventually disappears beyond the borders of the streetlights.

Part Four  
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes  
The next day Frank finds bruises on his hips.

He’s standing in front of the narrow mirror in his tiny bathroom, his shirt pulled up and his jeans caught around his knees, and he’s marveling at the fucking bruises on his hips. He squints through the hazy light and lets his hand brush over the yellowing patches. The darkening imprints have been twisted into his skin; streaks, dots and roses left there by clutching fingers.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s ever caught bruises; rough encounters with semi-trailers and swan dives from ten-story buildings tend to leave traces after the bones have healed and the wounds have stopped bleeding. But those bruises never linger, like these ones do. He’s even been able to watch the colors change from dark purple to yellowish brown in a slow overnight process. At ten in the morning they’re almost gone but they’re still visible.

Frank snorts a laugh and pulls his jeans back up, briefly catching a reflection of himself that’s both incredulous and amazed.

His discarded clothes from last night are still scattered on the floor, spread out in a lazy trail from the door to the shower, just like he left them when he got home. He lets his fingertips dance thoughtfully over the faded tattoos on his arm, the touch bringing back memories of how tight his skin had felt underneath the dry spots of blood; a red map of fields and rivers covering his thighs and ribs. 

Frank lights a cigarette and remains standing there in front of the mirror, watching as his image partly disappears behind a curtain of wispy smoke and wondering how Gerard is doing this morning. Then he notices the bulging laundry bag tucked away between the toilet and the shower. A thought occurs to him and he pulls the bag out, digging through it with a frown and occasionally waving his hand to prevent cigarette crumbles from falling in between the soiled rags.

He finds what he’s been searching for inside the pockets of one of his jeans; a crumpled business card with the words ‘Hargreeves Architecture / Urban Planning and Design’ barely visible through faded ink and wrinkled lines. Frank bites his lip hesitantly and brushes his thumb over the small print in the lower corner. The next second he locates his phone and quickly dials the number before his mind decides to change his intentions for him.

No one picks up the first time. The second call goes straight to Gerard’s recorded voice asking him to please leave a message. Frank hangs up before he gets to the tone and is about to give it one last try when he’s interrupted by a knock on the door. It’s soft and hesitant and sounds suspiciously like an attention-seeking and Sunday-bored Cora Milner. Frank rolls his eyes with a groan, hurriedly digging through his memory in search of previously used excuses, but when he opens the door he’s in for a surprise.

Gerard is the one standing outside. He’s leaning heavily against the wall and flinches when the door swings open, as if he’d actually managed to doze off while waiting.

“Hey,” he says, his voice rough and the corner of his mouth twitching into a barely visible half-smile. “Good to see that you… that you’re okay.”

Frank raises an eyebrow at him, considering the ruffled mess of his dark hair, the stubble along his jawline and the exhausted shadows underneath his red-rimmed eyes. His overall shabby appearance suggests that he’s slept in the same outfit he wore last night and a lingering scent of alcohol is clinging to him. Before Frank can even ask how drunk he really is, Gerard sways a little and gesticulates at himself.

“I just had a… uh, a meeting with my friend Jack Daniel,” he states, a dry laugh accompanying his lame attempt at a joke. “So right now I’m kinda, y’know…” He points at his own temple and twirls his finger.

“Jesus…” Frank shakes his head irritably and looks him over once more, only to do a double-take when he notices the state of Gerard’s right hand. A thin river of blood is coiled around his fingers, dripping tiny drops of syrupy redness onto the dirty floor. “Did Jack Daniel make you bleed as well?”

Gerard follows Frank’s hint of a nod and his mouth drops open in mild bewilderment. “Oh… No, that was…” He gestures vaguely into the air. “It happened downstairs. I… I don’t know. I cut myself on something.”

“Right.” Frank sighs, quietly blaming the cursed nail on the sixth floor for yet another unintended injury, before motioning for him to come inside. “Better clean that up.”

He skips out of the way of Gerard’s unsteady frame as he enters the room and clumsily flops down on the nearest chair. He slumps together like a common spineless hobo and ends up staring helplessly at the blood webbed around his fingers. Frank gives another irritable sigh and grabs him by the wrist to inspect the damage; the gash isn’t critically deep but it’s angry enough to cause a serious itch and ultimately an additional lifeline.

There isn’t much within the few walls of his apartment that might replace the first aid kit he’s never owned, but he manages to locate a clean towel and a somewhat fresh t-shirt he forgot he even had. Gerard watches with bloodshot eyes as Frank soaks the towel in lukewarm water and then proceeds to shred the shirt into narrow, ragged strips.

“Sorry for showing up like this,” he eventually says. “I wasn’t planning on it or anything, I kinda just… ended up here.”

“How did you get here?”

“I took a cab… Right before we got to the toll gate I recognized the area and asked the driver to drop me off. I didn’t know exactly where you lived but some drunkard lurking around the park said it was this building and then I knocked on a few doors and… well.” He cards his healthy hand through his hair in slight embarrassment. “Here I am.”

Frank folds the wet cloth into a makeshift sponge and dabs halfheartedly at Gerard’s bloody palm. “Are you an alcoholic?”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” Gerard replies, and there’s something genuine in the way he slowly shakes his head. He shows no rush in getting his calm denial across and it makes Frank immediately believe him. He doesn’t pursue the matter any further, just continues to wipe excess blood off his skin.

“I’ve never caused as much damage like I did to you last night,” Gerard quietly admits. “I felt like shit when I woke up this morning and to get wasted seemed like an easy way out but… I freaked out. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

Frank just shrugs and wraps the frayed pieces around his hand, tying it up with a less than perfect knot. “You should probably lie down for a bit,” he suggests after a short pause. “I don’t like the idea of you staggering around at your own fucking risk.”

“Uhm…” Gerard looks up at him through an unruly curtain of dark hair, his eyes flicking uncertainly towards the unmade sofa bed in the corner. “Are you sure…?”

“I can’t do much for you if you end up taking a headfirst tumble down the stairs.”

Frank urges him up from the chair with a nudge and gives him an additional push towards the bed. Gerard dumps down on the hard mattress with a weary groan and remains sitting there with his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in his hands. He’s quiet for so long that Frank starts wondering whether or not he should find him a box of tissues – or a bucket.

“If it hadn’t been for you I’d be a murderer right now,” Gerard says after a while, his voice muffled within the hollow confinements of his palms. “I have to be really careful with everyone else, you know. Most of the time it doesn’t even amount to much. It’s fucking pathetic.”

Frank leans against the window sill and looks at him. “Last night wasn’t your first time or anything?”

“Technically… no.” Gerard glances up from his hands, blushing wildly. “But it depends… Uhm, it kinda depends on who I – on how we – I mean, on the arrangement. If that… makes any sense.”

“You can always jerk off,” Frank points out, failing to realize how blunt his comment is. “Unless you’re afraid you’re gonna rip your dick off or some weird shit like that,” he adds, because honestly – if there’s one thing he’s learned these past few days it’s the fact that being a freak apparently comes out in a variety of versions.

Gerard smiles, a tired reaction that seems to match his slouched shoulders. “No, I can handle myself. It’s just everybody else who can’t.” His words are followed by abrupt silence and he quickly presses his lips together, his face immediately adopting a deeper shade of red. “Oh my God, that came out completely wrong.” He groans and retreats into the blind safety of his hands. “Thanks for not laughing at me.”

Frank shrugs at the hazel eyes peering at him from behind spread fingers. “Wasn’t funny.”

For a moment they’re encased in a bubble of silence. The only interruption is the frustrated yelling of one of the single Moms downstairs, added the ever-present sirens chasing the streets outside. When Gerard speaks again his words come slowly and softly, like an afterthought, creating a sharp contrast against the current midday chaos.

“I’ve dated so many people you wouldn’t even believe it.” His hands are tangled in his hair and he’s talking to the dust and lint on the floor. “I always try and make things work, you know, just in case they’re like me. I must seem pretty desperate.” He pauses for a moment, allowing for a short-lived giggle. “The last girl I dated worked part time at a burger joint. Eighteen years old. That’s twelve fucking years younger than me. Doomed from the get-go.”

Gerard lets his arms drop into his lap, and in that moment he strikes Frank as the most forlorn person he’s ever met. Being a resident of the Hellhole he sees hopelessness everywhere, every day. He knows what that curse looks like; he knows where it dwells, how it works and what it consumes – but in Gerard’s case it unfolds differently. He’s suffering from a certain kind of bad luck that separates him from the poor, the homeless and the depressed; if it hadn’t been for this one major flaw he would’ve been perfect. He’s in a great place in life but at the same time he’s not. He’s actually the personification of Frank’s ‘FOREVER JINXED’ tattoo.

Frank bites his lip and shifts awkwardly, his eyes wandering and his fingers interlaced. “You’re pretty messed up,” he then says, in want of something more compassionate to come up with.

The reply is a sharp bark of a laugh, one that dies out just as abruptly as it appeared. Gerard reaches up to thread his fingers through his hair once more, his drunken eyelids dropping with lack of sleep and unhappy realization. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I really am.”

Frank decides to make an attempt at diverting Gerard’s thoughts from the hole he’s currently digging himself into. “You should rest for a few hours,” he suggests, and takes a chance by adding “Maybe you’ll feel better afterwards” – although he’s got no experience with the positive effects of sleep.

Gerard looks at him, head tilted like he’s seriously considering it, maybe even objecting to it. Then he nods again and lies down, arms flung across the sheets like a pair of featherless wings. There’s another moment of Hellhole silence where Gerard appears to have drifted off instantly, until he fills the gap with a heavy sigh and blinks up at the cracked ceiling.

“I think this is gonna kill me,” he says, and the sentence is so unexpected it seems to drown out everything else. “I get a bit stronger every month. Sometimes I’m down to weeks, sometimes I change overnight. I have a feeling this is gonna be too much for me one day, like… my body is just gonna explode or collapse. The stronger I get, the weaker I become.” He lets out a curt laugh that ends on a bitter note. “Pretty fuckin’ ironic, don’t you think?”

“I think you should sleep.” Frank repeats himself slowly, like he’s addressing a severely unstable mental patient. “Like, seriously. Try it.”

Gerard lifts his head a fraction and glances at him, once again looking like he’s going to object. Then he surrenders with a wry smile and closes his eyes. “I wish I was more like you,” he says sleepily. “You’re not affected by anything. I admire that.”

Frank watches as Gerard is slowly conquered by his self-inflicted exhaustion. His face is buried halfway into the pillow and his hair is hanging in limp streaks across his forehead. Small patches of dull sunlight have fought their way past the blinds, creating golden contrasts against the slope of Gerard’s thigh and the small visible sliver of his pale collarbones. The mortal immortal; bleeding and knocked the fuck out thanks to nobody but himself. Frank wonders what the hell he’s supposed to do with him and for how long he’s going to be there. Taking care of people isn’t exactly his forte.

He remains by the window for a while, joining the shadows with his arms crossed and his head thoughtfully tilted. It occurs to him that Gerard actually hasn’t mentioned that he hates anything – at the very least he hasn’t said it out loud, and if anyone’s got the full right to express the sentiment of hatred it would definitely be him. He obviously dislikes his situation; he complains and despairs, corrects and apologizes, but at the same time it’s all so toned down, like an accepting shrug of one’s own fate. He genuinely wants to make it work, even though his special skills are far more inconvenient and dangerous than Frank’s.

Frank doesn’t really understand what motivates Gerard to get up in the morning. His life is a lost cause if there ever was one and if he really is destined to die young, like he claimed, then why even bother in the first place? Frank lights a new cigarette, his thumb picking at the filter. He assumes he doesn’t get it because he always takes full advantage of his misanthropic rights. After all, he hates everything.

***

It’s close to five in the evening when Gerard eventually stirs and peers up from behind the unruly heap of sheets. He throws a doubtful glance around the dim room, looking profoundly confused, before he spots the red glow from Frank’s newly lit cigarette. The current situation slowly seems to dawn on him, bits and pieces coming together like a delayed kind of hangover paranoia, and he falls back onto the mattress with a groan.

Frank shifts awkwardly in his chair. It’s not like he’s been very productive the past few hours. At one point he took a stroll around the neighborhood, though not for any greater purpose than stacking up on cigarettes. When he got back Gerard was still fast asleep. Since then he’s just been passing time by smoking and leafing through yesterday’s newspaper, which he nicked from some old bag lady’s shopping cart. It’s now, in the company of somebody else, that it suddenly becomes clear to him how little he actually does in order to overcome his uneventful days. They just end somehow, quietly and subtly, but with Gerard there it feels like everything has slowed down. It’s been a long day.

“So…” Frank begins uncertainly. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like a tow truck pulled my brain out of my ears… How long was I gone?”

“Four hours or something.”

“Four hours?” Gerard breathes in a soft, shocked gasp, his hands moving up to press against his lips. “Fuck, Frank, I’m so sorry. You should’ve woken me up. I didn’t mean to waste your entire Sunday.”

Frank lets out a curt laugh and shrugs. “Sundays are overrated. Can’t tell one from another.” He flicks the Marlboro box open and extends his arm towards him. “I know you said you quit but you look like you need one.”

Gerard sits up and blinks at him, his hair comically on end and his left cheek decorated with an extensive map of pillow marks. Then he smiles gratefully and reaches forward to snatch a cigarette. He lets Frank light it and takes a long drag, cheeks hollowed and brows furrowed.

“You were right,” he sighs contently, a remaining puff of smoke spilling past his lips. “I really fucking needed that.”

“Um… You must be hungry.”

“I’m starving, actually,” Gerard admits with a slow nod, his expression temporarily zoning out at the tempting thought of food. “… Oh, but don’t worry about it!” he adds quickly when Frank mentions something about ordering pizza. “I’m gonna, uhm – I’ll get going. I’ve been bothering you all day anyway so it’s best that I just… I’ll go home.”

Gerard trails off and starts wrestling the sheets tangled around his legs. For a couple of seconds Frank watches him struggle helplessly, before he shakes his head with a small sigh. “You’re on your way, alright,” he states evenly and locates his phone. “I hope you like pepperoni because I think that’s all they’ve got.”

Frank only knows of one pizzeria that’s stupid enough to deliver out to the Hellhole; their food is absolute shit, spread out on a menu that’s about as narrow as a tightrope, but he isn’t exactly bursting with ideas on how to cure something he’s never experienced. He isn’t bursting with conversational topics either, something that becomes painfully evident while they wait. Gerard doesn’t contribute with much, not with his natural talkativity still shackled by the anxious remains of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey. Instead he fiddles with the rag wrapped around his hand, his dry lips drawn into a taut line and the bridge of his nose increasingly shiny with sweat. After a while he quietly asks if he may use the bathroom and locks himself in only minutes before the pizza arrives.

The delivery boy is a spotty teenager who seems no more enthusiastic about his job than the sticky gum his teeth are currently working on. He wordlessly holds up a greasy pizza box that smells like dough and overheated pepperoni, and Frank hopes that it won’t have the opposite effect on Gerard’s stomach. He’s about to hand the undeserving kid a couple of crumpled dollar bills when Gerard emerges from the bathroom.

“I can pay for that,” he offers, hurrying forward to place a hand on his shoulder.

It’s merely in a thoughtless moment that Gerard gives him a slight push to the side, just an innocent nudge that’s still powerful enough to make him stumble a little. Frank’s breath stops short in his chest, his body immediately preparing for the unintended crackle of bones and tearing of ligaments – but it doesn’t happen. Instead he finds himself standing there, dumbfounded, with his hand clutched over his perfectly intact shoulder.

Gerard pays the boy and accepts the box with a smile, completely unaware of Frank’s staring confusion. “They’re pretty timely,” he says as he closes the door, though he wrinkles his nose when a whiff of lukewarm pizza hits him. “If anything.”

“What the fuck did you just do?”

Gerard stops halfway in the process of prying the lid open and looks up, puzzled. “Uhm…What – what did I do –?”

“You pushed me.”

“No, you’d have felt it if I did.”

“That’s the fucking point,” Frank argues irritably. He’s still got his palm pressed against his shoulder and the dull sounds of his slowly accelerating heartbeat have started to echo against his eardrums. “You nudged me out of the way but you didn’t hurt me. How did you do it?”

“No – I – I… Oh.” Gerard’s eyes widen. “I… don’t know. I just –”

“Hit me.”

“What –?”

“Hit me.” Frank gestures impatiently at his face. “The hardest you can.”

Gerard stares, the pizza held stupidly up in front of him. Then he sets the box down on the coffee table. “Alright, listen,” he says firmly, his voice taking on a negotiating tone. “I know what I’m capable of, okay? You know what I’m capable of. You know I’m gonna tear your jaw off and snap your neck, all in one go. You’re asking me for something way different than a plain nudge in the shoulder. I’m not doing it.”

“Oh, okay.” Frank narrows his eyes at him. “So you won’t do it because I’m not asking you to fuck me this time, is that it? It’s funnier screwing someone than punching them, right?”

The sarcastic remark immediately sends the blood rushing to Gerard’s head, and the angry warmth spreads rapidly to his ears and neck. He looks away and mutters an apology, saying that’s not what he meant. He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor for a little while, his breath catching in a disappearing protest.

“I’m right-handed…” he says, flexing his unharmed hand. “But I hope you realize that my left hook is just as solid.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, what is that? A bragging right? Just fucking do it!”

Gerard puts up his best puppy eyes, even though he knows that his pleading look has long since been defeated. At last he gives a reluctant sigh, balls his hand into a fist and takes the plunge.

In the exact moment his knuckles connect with Frank’s jaw, Frank can feel the impact. It’s skin against skin, bone against bone, crashing with a loud smack. His head is forced to the side, his upper body twisting with it, and it feels like he’s falling in slow motion. Frank barely registers the pain in his face and the string of spit dangling from his lip before his body hits the floor. He’s taken completely by surprise and for a second or two the world jumps out of focus.

“Motherfucker –!”

The uttered curse yanks him back to where he currently is. Frank blinks at the floorboards beneath him and shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the white spots dancing dizzily across his view. He manages to collect himself enough to catch the unsteady double image of Gerard; he’s cradling his hand against his chest, his teeth gritted and his features drawn together in a pained expression. Apparently it hurt nearly as much to hit as it did to be hit.

Frank flops over on his stomach and pushes himself up on all fours. He chokes out a groan and coughs, iron drops of blood slipping down his throat.

“Frank –” Gerard’s hands are clutching at him, urging him up from the floor. “Are you okay?”

Frank groans again, unsteady against Gerard’s hands. He reaches up to wipe his mouth and leaves a dark red smear across the back of his hand. “I’m bleeding,” he mutters thickly. “I’m still bleeding.”

“This is so weird,” Gerard whispers, his eyes fixed on his bruised knuckles. “This is so fucking weird.”

It’s obvious what has just happened to them; so obvious it’s almost taking half a loop back to unlikely. Frank frowns, the tip of his tongue trailing over his red-coated teeth. Now that the initial surprise is starting to fade it honestly feels like he’s missing the point. There’s been nothing in his life lately that could possibly indicate his transformation into anything remotely normal. It makes even less sense that Gerard is experiencing the exact same thing together with him. He doesn’t even understand why the fuck he would suddenly change at such a random time, especially now that being an invulnerable freak has long since turned into the only life he knows. He needed a change like this ten years ago when he still had some sense in him to care about a possible future.

“What now?” Gerard asks, as though he’s read his mind. “We’re normal all of a sudden?”

One thing’s for sure; nothing’s ever that easy. This whole thing is probably just a temporary glitch that’s going to reverse itself sooner or later. God knows how God works, if this mess can even be traced back to him in the first place.

Frank rubs his sore jaw and leans against the kitchen counter, before he looks across the room and spots the uneven constellation of dark stains on the wallpaper. And it’s then, while suddenly reminded of his numerous suicide attempts, that it hits him: he’s just received the perfect opportunity to kill himself. That’s what it means to be standing there with an aching jaw and a bleeding mouth. It’s literally been punched into him, the fact that he could kill himself for real right now. Frank stares at the dry and wrinkly burgundy blobs on the wall, the unintended collection of his daily failures, and he remembers that his gun is close. It’s somewhere in the kitchen drawer behind him, dusting away among knives and forks and already loaded with hollow-point bullets. He’s finally free to fulfill what’s been his biggest wish since he was twelve. If he really is mortal, in this very moment, he could die.

Holy fuck, Frank thinks, his heart racing. It feels like his insides have tucked themselves into a tight knot, like a convulsive physical restraint on his impulses.

He gives it a second thought. This isn’t how he expected it would feel like, to no longer be bulletproof. After so many years of being suicidal he assumed he was going to be excited about being in full control of his own life. The last thing he expected was definitely… doubt.

“You okay?”

The hesitant question makes him twitch with surprise, his thoughts returning to the present. Frank tears his eyes off the wall and stares at Gerard as though he’s never seen him before. Then he swallows, his tongue dry in his mouth. “I think… I think we should sleep on this. You know… before we talk about it.”

Gerard searches his face, his pale expression laced with worry, but in the end he gives him a tiny smile and a nod. “You’re right. I have work tomorrow anyway… It’s best I get going.”

They remain there by the counter for a moment, marked by blood and bruises, and Frank can’t help but think they must look completely ridiculous. Gerard hesitates, his fingers playing nervously with the makeshift bandage around his hand.

“Don’t mess with it,” Frank mutters. “It’s gonna fall off.”

Gerard watches him tie the frayed ends into a tighter knot, the shadows under his eyes creating deep grooves above his cheekbones. Before Frank can pull his hand back, Gerard reaches out and grabs him carefully by the wrist. He looks at him, his breath hitching as though he’s about to say something, but instead he decides to keep quiet and leans forward.

The first kiss is hesitant, with Gerard’s dry and warm lips barely touching Frank’s, his breath feathering over his skin. He withdraws for a moment, one that lasts long enough for exchanged glances, though there’s no room for urging words or protests. Gerard’s dark hair falls into his face, arching down to tickle the bridge of Frank’s nose when he leans in for a second kiss.

Frank shuts his eyes when he feels Gerard’s palm press gently against his bruised jaw, the rags wrapped around his hand lightly scraping his cheek. Frank’s hands are determinately clutching the edge of the counter but he can’t help but lean into him. He parts his lips, catching a taste of cigarettes and stale whiskey. He lets out a soft moan, his back arching and his chest pressing against Gerard’s.

They break apart before the kiss turns into grasping hands and too much teeth, their lips disconnecting with a faint pop and leaving a disappearing trail of labored breath between them. The tips of their noses are touching lightly and Frank still has his eyes closed.

“I should go now,” Gerard whispers reluctantly against the corner of his mouth, his lips grazing Frank’s one more time before he pulls away. “I’ll, uh, I’ll call you tomorrow, if that’s okay,” he adds, a deep-set blush gradually unfolding on his cheeks.

“Wanna take the pizza with you?” Frank doesn’t even get to rethink the stupid proposal before he blurts out with it.

Gerard just laughs and waves a hand at him. “Nah, that’s okay. I bet you’re hungry now anyway.”

He thanks him with an awkward half-bow and repeats his promise about calling him. When he’s gone Frank realizes that he’s kind of right; for the first time in years he is actually pretty hungry.

***

Frank wakes up early the next morning with his hand pried well into his boxers and a vague wet dream slipping out of his mind. He lifts the sheets and frowns down at his crotch, quickly concluding that he can’t be bothered doing anything to either encourage of discourage his semi-boner. The daily noises of the Hellhole starts seeping into his consciousness and the entire building gradually comes to life with a collective wail of arguing couples and screaming kids. Frank rolls out of bed with a groan, ready to swear that this fucking place is truly one of hell’s circles.

It’s not until he’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror that he discovers his face doesn’t hurt anymore. He peers at his reflection, his fingertips skipping cautiously over his jawline. The bruises are completely gone, along with the sore lip and aching teeth. He spits into the sink to see if he’s bleeding anymore but there’s not so much as a hint of pink against the scratched porcelain. There’s practically no trace of the encounter with Gerard’s fist at all. Even the bruises on his hips have vanished.

His phone starts buzzing while he’s getting dressed. Frank picks his way through the messy room, pushing half-eaten pizza and old newspapers out of the way, before finally digging it out from between the wrinkly crevices of his bed sheets. It’s a text message from Gerard.

‘Still got it. Do you?’

So it turns out he was right; it was all nothing but a temporary glitch. Frank sighs heavily. There’s really no point in double-checking but he assumes he can do it in the easiest way he knows, just to make sure. He gets his lighter out and directs the tall flame at a tattoo-free spot below his elbow. He lets it lick over his skin until he’s gained something close to a third degree burn before he puts the flame out. Less than ten seconds later the scorch marks have disappeared, only leaving behind a smudge of soot. Frank scowls. He can still classify himself as a freak. That’s fucking great.

‘Pretty much,’ he types back.

The reply ticks in after just a few seconds. ‘Wanna meet? I’m at the site.’

Frank sucks on his lip, for a moment considering asking him why and for what. Then he changes his mind with a shrug, knowing that his excuses are nonexistent, and writes back that he’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

***

When he arrives at the construction site Gerard is already waiting for him, a white safety helmet on his head and another bright orange one tucked under his arm. He’s standing underneath a large signage announcing the future arrival of brand new offices, signed with the minimalistic logo of Hargreeves Architecture. Gerard looks really good this morning, Frank must admit that.

“Nice to see that your bruises are gone,” he says as he approaches him, an uncertain smile tugging at his lips.

Frank wonders if they’re supposed to be mentioning or even apologizing for what happened yesterday, but since yesterday consisted of a lot of different things, neither of them seem capable of coming up with anything sensible to say.

“So did you want anything?” he eventually asks.

“Uh, yeah… I kinda wanted to show you something.” Gerard jabs his thumb in the general direction of the concrete skeleton behind him. “We have to go in so, uhm, here you go.” He awkwardly hands him the orange helmet.

“Seriously?” Frank stares at the flashy item, his eyebrows raised. “You gotta be kidding.”

“It’s required on site, I’m sorry. I hate them too, if that’s any consolation.”

“I still have to wear the damn thing, don’t I?” Frank huffs irritably and glares as he snatches the hard hat out of his hands. “You could’ve at least picked a more neutral color. I’m visible from fucking Mars in this one.”

“Looks cute on you though,” Gerard laughs and taps carefully on the plastic with his finger. “If anyone asks you’re here for quality control.”

He takes him on a short tour of the site, enthusiastically gesticulating his way through hallway visions, office room panorama and dining hall plans. He tells him that constructing an office building right next to a park was a strategic move by the commissioners, spurred on by extra finances and consulting psychologists. Gerard rambles on about the positive mental effects of having the park so close, something that’s apparently going to increase efficiency without pissing people off or giving them a heart attack. It’s obvious that he’s fully recovered from yesterday’s hangover.

“And this is what you wanted to show me?” Frank asks doubtfully, interrupting him in the middle of an explanation of the parking solutions.

“Oh. Uh... no. I got a bit carried away, I’m sorry. I just wanted to…uhm. Follow me.”

Without another word Gerard leads him across the site and past a couple of dormant excavators, not stopping until they’re behind a large stack of building blocks. A collection of heavy rebar is laying there. The reinforcements have been tied together in bundles of fifteen or twenty, ready to be structured and covered in concrete. He points at them.

“I did this right before you showed up.”

Frank squints at the bottom bundles; a couple of the bars have gotten their ends twisted into a perfect U-shape, almost bent all the way into a loop. There are even several small indentations in the hard steel, fragmented fingerprints left there by Gerard’s hand.

“Okay, impressive.” Frank looks up at him with a shrug. “So what?”

“Well…” Gerard shifts uncomfortably and glances around, making sure that no one is watching. “Now that you’re here I actually wanted to try something…”

He takes a step forward and grabs a hold of the nearest bar. He waits for a second, his jaw set and his eyebrows knitted, before he gives it a firm tug. Frank can see his upper arm contract underneath his sweater, the tendons in his arm working below his rolled up sleeve – but nothing happens. Gerard seems to be giving it all that he’s got, his wrist is even trembling slightly, but the bar remains unaltered. When he finally gives up he’s looking both flustered and surprised.

“Whoa,” he breathes, marveling at his hands. “I was right. What happened to us last night made me think and… I was fucking right.” He looks up, meeting Frank’s confused expression. “Our powers or skills or whatever this shit is – it disappears when we’re together.”

Frank stares at him. “So you’re saying that if I grab the closest nail gun and use it on my hand… it’s gonna hurt like a bitch? Just because I’m with you?”

“Most likely,” Gerard nods. “But please don’t.”

Still, Frank wants to test the theory. For all he knows Gerard could be experiencing a placebo-effect, an extreme result of wishful thinking or something. He rubs absently at his palm, looking around for something less drastic than a nail gun, and his gaze falls on the heap of construction waste next to them. It’s thrown together by a variety of insulation, wires and bricks, and he singles out a piece of wood with a row of crooked nails attached to it.

The process is quick and effortless; just a firm press with his finger against the nail and he can immediately feel the tiniest bite as it punctures his skin. A dark red blob seeps slowly from the small hole, resting shakily on the pad of his fingertip and growing fatter before it slides down the rest of his finger. As for the wound, not a single thing happens to it. He’s going to need a band aid and that’s about it.

“Wow.” Frank gives a disbelieving laugh and wipes at the blood with the sleeve of his jacket. “This is like a shitty superhero movie or something. We’re failed fucking X-Men.”

For an extra couple of stunned seconds it’s just them and the surrounding rumbles of distant bulldozers. However the moment is interrupted by Gerard’s phone reminding them that he’s still at work and that Frank is just a pointless visitor wearing a stupid safety helmet.

“Hey, uh, Frank?” Gerard looks up, eyening him expectantly. “I was wondering… Are you doing anything on Saturday?”

Frank groans. “If you wanna take me back to that shitty club I fuckin’ swear to God –”

“No! That’s not what I meant, it’s just that… it’s Max’s birthday this weekend, you know, my brother’s kid? He’s turning one year old and, uh, I’ve basically declined the invitation already, but now that things have kinda changed… I figured maybe… maybe you wanted to come with me?”

“Uhm… why?” He frowns at him. “You want a guarantee against accidentally smothering your brother’s baby to death?”

“I know how it sounds, I’m sorry.” Gerard pauses, the archery of his lips pulled into a tiny embarrassed smile. “You totally don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

Like it’s an instinctive reaction, Frank is immediately ready to turn him down. Damn right he doesn’t have to go. It’s fucking ridiculous to think he’s willing to sit there in some comfortable couch with a bunch of strangers and pretend he’s been perfectly normal his entire life just so Gerard can properly hug a couple of people. To be honest it sounds like just another circle of hell.

“Look, I’m sure your family is nice and everything, but I – I…”

He trails off, caught off guard by Gerard’s expression. He probably doesn’t see his family as often as he’d like to and he looks so hopeful and – Jesus Christ. Frank is actually feeling sorry for the poor bastard. He stifles a sigh and scowls at the unfinished construction in the background.

“…I’ll go then,” he finishes with a defeated mutter. “But I’m not dressing up, just so you know.”

Chapter End Notes

Happy New Year, guys! <3

Part Five  
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes  
Come Saturday morning, Frank is already good to go some time around dawn. It’s not because he’s feeling particularly excited, but because Gerard didn’t specify anything, obviously assuming that Frank would know what the majority thinks is a good time to celebrate a baby’s birthday. He woke early anyway though, this day like every other day – might as well get ready sooner rather than later.

The past few hours he’s been watching a couple of local bums trying to remove a dead stray cat from the street. The poor animal has been flattened into the concrete by a garbage truck or something equally heavy, and then spread out in a four feet skid mark of guts, fur and bones. So far the two losers have attempted to scrape the bloody remains into the gutter with a couple of sticks, all the while arguing loudly among themselves. That’s apparently the best solution someone with a chronically heroin-infested brain can come up with. Fucking idiots.

Frank throws a downward glance, his attention caught by the letters that used to be tattooed on his knuckles. The chopped up word of ‘HALLOWEEN’ is barely visible anymore; the black outline has faded into ghostly gray and the orange yellows have been assimilated by the color of his skin. Like the rest of his tattoos the letters have been broken down like a common parasite. There are even days when they easily melt away with soap and water, as if someone just scribbled on him with a sharpie. The whole thing is ridiculous.

He jumps a little at the sudden, almost cheerful knock on the door. He realizes that the morning has merged with midday already and that this is probably Gerard picking him up. Just as expected Frank opens up to a sober and smiling version of him – no unkempt clothes and no lingering scent of alcohol this time.

“Hey, Frank, I – whoa.” Gerard interrupts his greeting with a surprised stutter. “I sure hope you don’t believe that,” he adds jokingly and nods at Frank’s choice of t-shirt.

Frank looks down at himself and it occurs to him that the statement on his chest actually reads I am a monster. And as if that wasn’t enough the sentence is repeated five times with bold letters, only to end in a not so optimistic Hate me. Destroy me. The print as a whole isn’t exactly appropriate for a kid’s birthday party. It’s probably not appropriate for meeting the family of your latest fuck either.

He turns around with a roll of his eyes and mutters something vague about changing clothes.

“Shit, I didn’t mean it like that,” Gerard says hurriedly, though it’s obvious he’s just too polite to tell him directly. “It was just… y’know.” He rolls his hands in his general direction. “But you can wear whatever you like, Frank, by all means.”

Frank sacrifices one quick look at Gerard’s outfit. He’s not wearing anything smart in particular, just a simple t-shirt, jeans and a leather jacket. He hasn’t even brushed his hair properly but he still looks as though someone styled him that way, like he stepped right out of a fashion catalogue. Unintentionally stylish and obliviously confident; a dapper motherfucker in a nutshell.

Gerard places himself awkwardly by the window and picks absently at the scabbing wound in his palm. Frank ignores him and picks his way through the messy room, eventually digging out a white shirt that doesn’t seem too worn, as well as a beige cardigan that smells moldy despite looking surprisingly fresh. He highly doubts he’s ever worn this at all, something which is confirmed by the price tag still attached to its collar.

“Oh, by the way –” Gerard stops him before he can stalk off to the bathroom. “I fixed something for you.”

He searches the inner pocket of his jacket and tosses a small item across the room, something Frank can’t make out what is before he’s snatched it. It’s the fucking nail from the sixth floor bannister. It’s been pinched clean off, like a simple toothpick, and then bent into an elegant circle. The harmless loop is resting heavily in his palm, leaving faint smudges of rust against his skin. This can only mean two things; first of all the obvious fact that no more arteries will be accidentally severed on the sixth floor, and secondly that their powers are still running perfectly fine when they’re not within eyesight of each other.

It’s strange, how someone’s entire life can change during a few steps, how they can transform just by passing the floors of a rundown building and find themselves face to face with a simple nobody. It’s also strange to think how Frank could throw himself out of the window right now and most likely sustain severe injuries.

“This place needs a janitor,” he finally says, chasing the latter thought away. “Just in case you’re up for it.”

***

The backseat of Gerard’s car is completely occupied by a massive mountain of presents. Frank glances over his shoulder and does a double-take when he sees the tower of colorful wrappings. “Did you rob a toy store or something?”

Gerard just grins and puts the car into drive. “Go big or go home.”

The party is hosted at his parents’ house, which is in some suburb a few miles away. Frank has never been to that side of the city before. If he’s not lurking around the city malls he usually just sticks to the wrong side of it. To him, the suburbs have always remained a distant fable of skinny people with tiny dogs and perfect hedges wrapped in a haze of heavily saturated colors. It’s not somewhere he would willingly go.

By the time they’ve reached the street of their destination he’s starting to get increasingly uneasy. The area in itself is strikingly uninteresting and doesn’t seem to fit his misguided preconceptions, but it’s still different enough to yet again point him out as the outsider. He pulls a little pointlessly at the seatbelt, which feels annoyingly tight across his chest.

The Way’s live in a pretty ordinary house almost at the end of the street. They’ve got a nicely tended front lawn and a narrow driveway with room for maximum two cars, which means that Gerard, as the latecomer, has to park by the curb. Frank peers out the window and can’t help but doubtfully purse his lips at the colorful balloons tied to the mailbox. He’s feeling extremely out of place already and he hasn’t even gotten his ass out of the car.

They have barely set foot on the front porch when the door swings open and a bottle-blonde woman who has to be Gerard’s mother greets them. Frank takes a step back and watches, a bit overwhelmed, as the moment morphs into a blur of hugs and unknown voices. She welcomes her eldest son like she hasn’t seen him in about twenty years and places a big kiss right on his cheek, her pink lips leaving a perfect, rosy imprint.

“It’s been months since I even heard from you!” she exclaims worriedly. “Have you been sick lately? Why don’t you ever call?”

“Mom –” Gerard splutters at little and wipes at his cheek with his palm, his ears blossoming red. “You know I haven’t been sick since I was a kid. I’ve just been busy with work, that’s all.”

“Sweetie, you’re always busy,” Mrs. Way scolds him mildly, though she can’t help but smile when Gerard softens the moment by giving her a hug. Frank can tell that he hugs her extra tightly.

He awkwardly tags along as they make their way inside. Gerard happily greets everyone as they’re being ushered through to the living room, where they gather around a little disorganized. The place smells of fresh coffee and baby porridge, and there are several rubber toys lying around that he tries his best not to step on. Gerard’s attention is wholeheartedly centered on his family and for a couple of long minutes Frank remains standing uneasily in the background, caught behind a momentary shield of invisibility. It’s not until Gerard has managed to push his presents onto his brother that he grabs him by the arm and pulls him into the intimidating circle of attention.

“Everyone – this is Frank,” he smiles. “Frank, this is my family.”

He tries to keep track as Gerard points his way through the introductions. Besides his mother and father there is an aunt and a couple of uncles that Frank doesn’t catch the name of. The lean guy with the fauxhawk and framed glasses is his brother Mikey, who looks much younger than what he probably is. Then there’s his wife Alicia, dark-haired and tattooed, and at last Max the birthday boy, who’s sitting on the floor and trying to destroy a stuffed animal, oblivious to the fact that he’s being celebrated.

Frank gives a halfhearted wave and mumbles “hi”, hoping he looks both presentable and approachable enough to be deemed ‘normal’.

“So, Frank – what do you do for a living?”

It’s Mr. Way, gray-haired and bespectacled, who’s asking. Of course. All eyes are suddenly on him and Frank thinks fuck as he looks blankly back at their expectant faces, a hard-hitting wave of dread washing over him. He should’ve known that the number one question in situations like these is what he actually chooses to do with his life. Last night he had briefly considered making something up, to create a plausible emergency life that might sound decent and believable enough, but it slipped out of his mind before he ever got around to it. He’s deeply regretting it now.

“Oh, uh… I’m kinda in the family business…?” he finally attempts, helplessly grabbing onto the first thing that occurs to him. “I mean, um, my Dad owns Iero Real Estate and I’m an only child so it’s… it’s convenient.”

That is partly true and partly bullshit. Technically, he’s telling the truth; his father does own a real estate company. It’s just that the last time Frank was considered part of the ‘family business’ he was still just a blissfully oblivious child.

“Wow, really?” Mr. Way shoots him a curious look. “That’s funny because Iero Real Estate is pretty well known around here; I think they’ve sold half the houses in this neighborhood alone. I had no idea Iero had any children though. His name’s Frank too, right?”

Frank glances at Gerard, who’s wearing an expression of genuine sympathy, as if he’s feeling bad for him and his pathetic lies.

“Yeah…” He smiles wryly and nods, trying to sound cheerful. “We’re three generations of Frank.” Or two generations of Frank and one generation of Freak.

They scatter around the small living room while they wait for Mrs. Way to finish preparing the birthday cake. Frank places himself cautiously on the couch next to Gerard, saying as little as politely possible and trying to balance his presence somewhere between interested and avoidant. Little baby Max has warmed up to his nearly unknown uncle, something Gerard is absolutely ecstatic about; he seems to have a rattle in his hand at all times and the kid is pretty much sitting on his lap every five minutes.

Frank looks at him a little restlessly, starting to feel uncomfortably neglected in the midst of all the unrelated family talk. It was a bad idea, agreeing to this. It’s going to be a long fucking evening, he can already tell.

“Hey, where’s the bathroom?” he mutters into Gerard’s ear, needing a break real bad, though he only receives an absent “mhm” in response.

Frank stabs a glare at him before he gets up and manages to slip out of the living room more or less unnoticed. It’s not like he has any business that needs to be taken care of but he pokes around the entrance hall for a few seconds, wondering whether or not he should just try and make a run for it. He’s about to open the door to something that could potentially be either a bathroom or a closet when someone speaks.

“Are you looking for something?”

He spins around and finds himself face to face with Mrs. Way. She looks back at him with an expression of mild wonder.

“Uhm, yeah…” Frank steps awkwardly away from the door. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

“Oh, right upstairs, hon,” she smiles and points behind him. “Second door on the left.”

He quickly thanks her and is about to turn away when she tells him to wait.

“You know,” she begins, lowering her voice a little, “it’s been a while since I’ve seen Gerard like that.” Mrs. Way nods through to the living room, where Gerard has moved to sit on the floor with Max, completely absorbed in a game of peek-a-boo. “This is also the first time he’s brought someone around for us to meet. So you must be special to him.”

Frank’s immediate thought is that she’s damn right; he is special to him. But as he stares back at her, a bit perplexed, he realizes that this is not so much about superpowers as it is about Gerard’s happiness. Mrs. Way is talking about the things a mother would typically notice in her children. Frank glances in direction of the living room and for the first time he notices how completely different Gerard looks in these homely surroundings. The expression on his face is open and happy, his smile all teeth and his eyes twinkling with every laugh. He’s relaxed and carefree, miles away from the awkward architect trying to navigate safely through a fragile world. It’s obvious that his family doesn’t seem to have the faintest clue about what he can do. Gerard really has made every effort to keep things hidden for the sake of the people he loves, and the fact that his sanity is still in one piece is admirable.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Frank has done him a huge favor just by agreeing to this. He just had no idea his presence was going to mean this much. The thought alone is downright terrifying.

He makes it clear that he really needs to go and hurriedly thanks Mrs. Way again, before escaping up to the second floor as quickly as he can. He remains standing in the wide patch of sunlight at the upstairs landing, hesitant with his hand on the bannister and with a sluggish swirl of dust particles dancing around him. He glances cautiously around and then turns to the left, as instructed.

He passes a small display of family photos on his way and slows down for a closer look. They’re mostly baby photos of Gerard and Mikey, plus some prom dates and graduations and various birthdays. There’s even a picture of a smiling Gerard at a construction site, standing in front of an empty concrete platform with a safety helmet on his head and a blueprint in his hands. It looks like his first professional assignment or something like that.

Apparently there are differences between the son of a working class family and the son of a real estate magnate, and the latter isn’t necessarily any better than the former. It’s obvious that Gerard’s family doesn’t know anything about the double life of their eldest son, but Frank is ready to bet that the Ways would somehow take those changes in stride and not love him any less if they had known. They just seem like that kind of people. It’s funny how surviving a picket fence encounter can drastically change the outcome of things; if Frank had managed to keep everything hidden, just like Gerard, he might’ve had something similar to this right now. Or if he’d just died, like every other kid would’ve done, he wouldn’t have to worry in the first place.

He scowls as he locks himself inside the bathroom. His reflection is glaring back at him, looking tired and unimpressed, as though saying “Oh, it’s you again.”

Come to think of it he can’t really compare himself to Gerard. That’s a stupid, farfetched thing to do; they’re much too different for that. Where Gerard has achieved so much already, despite himself, Frank’s entire existence has remained dormant and pointless. He’s nothing but a shrug in time and he doesn’t fit in anywhere. He’s a rootless nobody and bottom line is, he shouldn’t be here. For Gerard’s sake, he shouldn’t be somebody special. Frank is like the foggy swamp, complete with treacherous sinkholes and hidden cadavers. He’ll probably end up disappointing him so much it’s going to ruin his life.

“Frank? You in there?”

The soft knock on the door and Gerard’s muffled voice snatches him back to the present. Frank sighs and runs a hand through his floppy bangs, watching his reflection lazily mimic his move, before he reluctantly goes to unlock the door.

“Hey – you alright?”

Frank just barely stops himself from blurting out with an unlikely excuse of not feeling well. Instead he escapes eye contact and remains standing there by the bathroom door, his hands pried halfway into his pockets. “I’m fine,” he replies evasively. “I was just… I’m thinking about leaving.”

“Leaving?” Gerard stares at him with a mix of surprise and worry. “Why, what happened?”

“Nothing happened, it’s just –” He gestures irritably into the air, as if that’s supposed to make him understand. “Your family’s awesome, for real, I’m just so… I’m so out of place here and I’d like to leave, that’s all. You don’t have to give me a ride or make up excuses for me. I just wanna go.”

He starts backing away but Gerard grabs him by the arm and holds him back, a pleading look in his eyes. “You can’t go,” he says earnestly. “I really – I need you here.”

“Sure you do,” Frank scoffs and yanks his hand out of his grip. “It’s fucking convenient for you to have me around. I’m literally saving lives just by being here.”

“Yeah, but it’s not just that,” Gerard argues quietly. “I really like you, Frank. It should be pretty obvious that I enjoy your company, even if you hate me or… whatever it is you’re feeling. And I’m not gonna stop enjoying your company unless you tell me to fuck off, which you haven’t. Sure it’s convenient but I like to hang out with you for you. I thought you got that by now.”

There’s silence. Frank swallows, wide-eyed as he searches for words. Okay, so he gets it, he really does. It is pretty obvious, that’s true, but nonetheless his heart is beating with surprise. “Well, you fucking suck at picking friends,” he says at last, his voice hoarse. “I just… I think you deserve better.”

“That’s a load of crap,” Gerard laughs softly. “I’ll take my chances.”

Frank doesn’t get to comment on it before Mrs. Way’s voice drifts up the staircase, calling them down for cake and using a tone that only a mother knows how to use, with an unsaid ‘right now’ lingering at the end of her words. Never mind that her son and his friend are grown adults.

“I’m screwed up too, you know,” Gerard smiles, reaching out to give his arm an encouraging squeeze. “Now let’s go before my Mom starts using my middle name.”

***

Honestly, Frank had imagined spending the rest of the evening glaring passive-aggressively at Gerard until he’d cave and agree to get going. Instead they’re the last ones to leave, several hours after Mikey and Alicia had to take a fussy Max home. By the time they’re out of the suburbs it’s already dark.

Frank stares absently out the passenger window, his features freckled with the neon blur of passing buildings and disappearing headlights. He’s under the impression that the Ways somehow liked him. Mrs. Way even prepared for him a Tupperware box with leftover cake to take home, though he’s not sure if that counts as a sign of affection or if it’s just a way to adhere to some kind of social protocol. Either way, it was nice.

He looks thoughtfully at the plastic box in his lap, his fingertips tracing the smudges of frosting stuck to the semi-transparent lid – and that’s when it hits him.

“I don’t wanna go home.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t wanna go home,” Frank repeats in a low voice. He registers Gerard glancing at him, just for a split-second before he returns his attention to the road.

“Okay… Why not?”

Frank snorts. “You’ve seen the place. And besides, it’s… it’s empty. Like, I usually don’t mind being alone or anything, it’s just that now –”

He hesitates, teeth tugging at his lip. Well, what about ‘now’? What so different this time? When did he start distinguishing between now and then? Frank sighs and tilts his head against the cool surface of the window, watching as the road in front of them properly morphs into the lanes of the interstate, a large conveyor belt feeding vehicles in direction of the tollgates. This was a fucking idiotic thing to admit, especially when he doesn’t know what he meant to say in the first place.

“I think… I think I’d blow my brains out tonight if I could. I mean, like, if I was mortal all the time, I’d probably just end it tonight. But I obviously can’t do that, not when I’m alone, so…” Frank cuts himself off and shakes his head, embarrassed. “You know what, never mind. It was stupid anyway.”

For a short while Gerard doesn’t respond; he just keeps his eyes fixed on the road, his eyebrows pulled into a thoughtful frown. “This is sort of a dilemma,” he finally states. “If I leave you alone I know you’re gonna live because you’ll just regenerate – right? At the same time you shouldn’t have to be alone if you don’t want to. It’s just that… I cancel your powers out. So if I take you back to mine there’s the possibility you’re gonna end up killing yourself.” He laughs nervously. “That’s, um… that’s basically what you’re saying.”

“But… we are going back to yours?” Frank asks when Gerard picks a lane that’s going to loop them back to the city.

“Well… yeah. But if you can think of somewhere else you’d rather be then tell me.”

Frank stares ahead, his gaze connecting absently with the illuminated license plate of the truck in front of them. He can think of several places, actually. If he’s simply looking to pass some time together with someone then he’s got plenty of willing contacts and cheap opportunities. Like this one guy he met just a couple of months ago; his name and face escapes his memory, but he knows that he had a garish rainbow tattooed on his hip, that the sex was annoyingly loud, and that he seemed very eager to meet with him again. Frank knows many people like that, come to think of it – maybe too many. Even Cora Milner’s bony hips and cereal diet crosses his mind for a brief moment.

So yeah, he could totally go to lots of places if only he wanted to, but there’s no place at all that he’d rather be, as Gerard put it. It’s funny, considering how he just admitted to not wanting to be alone. It doesn’t make sense – unless it’s Gerard’s company he wants. Which is a ridiculous thought anyway. It’s Gerard who wants his company.

In the end Frank just gives a light shrug and sinks back against the seat. “I’m not gonna slit my wrists in your presence or anything,” he mutters. “So don’t worry.”

They drive back to Gerard’s apartment in silence, a silence that remains all the way from locking the car up in the parking garage to taking the elevator up to the top floor. Not a word is uttered until they’re standing in the hallway and shrugging their jackets off.

“I’ll make us some coffee,” Gerard says as he saunters past Frank and into the kitchen. “I bet it tastes even better when you’re normal, right?” He adds this with a smile in his voice, an attempt at softening the unwillingly heavy mood.

Frank takes a moment to look around. The architecture books, the organized comics and the boring photographs on the wall are all there, the decor of the unfamiliar life he visited the last time. He eases himself onto one of the bar stools by the kitchen counter and watches Gerard move about the small kitchen, not saying anything until a cup of steaming hot coffee is set down in front of him.

“I thought your family knew.” Frank stops to tug his sleeves protectively over his palms before folding his hands around the mug. “About what you can do and stuff.”

Gerard smiles crookedly, his eyes fixed on the thick steam of his coffee. “My grandma used to say that if two people share a secret, there’s always a third party involved, no matter what… so I kept it to myself. It’s just easier this way.”

“Easier for them, yeah.”

“I guess something’s gotta give.” He makes room for a worried pause, his head tilted. “How’re you feeling?”

Frank lets out an emotionless laugh between the scalding sips of coffee. “Don’t bother going there, man, seriously. It’s okay.”

“You’re suicidal,” Gerard replies, and though the statement is obvious it’s nonetheless striking coming from someone else. “That’s not okay.”

“We don’t have to discuss this.” Frank cups his hands around the heated porcelain and keeps them like that until it stings. “It’s making you uncomfortable.”

“It’s making me uncomfortable?”

Frank keeps his mouth stubbornly shut for a few moments until he gets up and walks over to the window. The bird’s-eye view of the street below is so different from the post-apocalyptic crater at home. Even though this is just a regular area, with it’s fair share of rude pedestrians and annoying street vendors, there’s a different kind of busy unfolding in this place. It’s productive, rather than destructive. Everyone is moving towards something, instead of rotting away in a cardboard corner.

“Want me to call a cab for you?”

The question is posed to his turned away back and Frank just shakes his head, absently and automatically.

“I’ll find you a blanket then? Get the couch ready –”

“No, don’t bother.”

“Then what?” The tone in Gerard’s voice is suddenly tainted by impatience and his ever-present calmness is about to abandon him. “You don’t wanna go home, you don’t wanna rest and you don’t wanna talk about it. So what the fuck do you want, Frank? What are you trying to say?”

Frank turns around, biting his lip. All of a sudden he feels conflicted and defensive and his scrambled explanation seems to be caught somewhere in his chest.

“I… I don’t…” He stammers, wishing he could come up with something eloquent that magically explains everything. “Contrary to what you think, I don’t hate you,” he finally concludes, his words coming out a little more aggressively than intended. “I just… I don’t feel like dying when I’m with you. You make me… not wanna die and I – it sounds stupid, okay, but I’m fucking caught off guard here.”

He wants to add Leave me alone but Gerard moves towards him before he can do or say anything else. Frank reacts instinctively by jumping a step back but he’s kept in place by the hard wall digging into his shoulders, followed by Gerard’s lips pressing firmly against his own. Frank flails slightly, moving his hands about like he’s trying to break free but he only ends up grasping, pulling at Gerard’s shirt instead of pushing him away. As if that passes as a subtle approval, the kiss quickly transforms into something more insistent.

They find themselves stumbling across the room for a few feverish seconds, unsuccessfully dodging chairs and corners but somehow finding their way to the bedroom. They’re tugging clumsily at each other’s clothes, their shirts soon wrung inside-out and scattered on the floor, and Frank goes straight for Gerard’s jeans. He’s battling his belt when he’s stopped.

“Wait,” Gerard breathes into his lips, voice just barely above a whisper. “Slow down a little.”

Frank receives a light nudge that causes him to land on the bed with a soft thump. He reluctantly accepts the change in pace and falls back against the mattress, slowly exhaling as he stares up at the roof and trying not to focus too much on how he’s already half-hard.

Gerard rummages through the nightstand next to him, partly concealed by the bluish darkness. The cold moonlight seeps in between the blinds and falls in shaky horizontal lines across his pale chest, giving his softly moving shadow a stretch, all the way until it’s draped over the farthest wall. Frank has never seen anyone look like that, like a split second’s still frame cut from a silent movie. Then again, he’s never taken the moment to stop and actually look before. All of a sudden he’s feeling a little nervous, like he’s running completely without his usual autopilot.

Finally, Gerard locates a condom and a bottle of lube, leaving the items on the mattress somewhat hesitantly. Frank is about to ask if that’s even necessary until he remembers that they’re not drunkenly tucked away in a dirty alley this time.

“I’m nervous.” Gerard’s confession comes with a sharp, abrupt laugh. “Pretty fucking sad when you’re thirty, right?” An unsure expression flits across his face and strips him of both his age and his supernatural strength, leaving him looking like the most vulnerable person Frank has ever seen.

“Just so you know, you definitely can’t hurt me now,” he points out. “Not badly.”

He needs a few more seconds to consider this, but in the end Gerard just nods wordlessly, still looking a little forlorn but climbing over him nonetheless. Their chests are pressed heavily together as he leans down to kiss him and Frank can literally feel his heart beating against his skin. They share a few more of those slow kisses until Gerard gains enough confidence to work his way down Frank’s body. He traces the scattered remains of his vanishing tattoos with his lips, counting the letters and stars that once used to be there, all the way until his mouth ghosts over the faded birds etched into his abdomen. They’re a poorly executed job to be honest, left there by the shaky hands of some teenage apprentice lacking the necessary talent. Frank would actually love to touch up on that particular tattoo if he ever gets the chance. It’s a nice design, to be fair. It didn’t fit into his life back then but maybe it will later, at one point.

It doesn’t take long until his jeans and boxers are pulled off and Frank’s skin is fully exposed to the darkened room. A shiver races up his spine despite the comfortable temperature, creating goose bumps on his arms, and all of a sudden Gerard’s hands on his hips feel twice as warm. He resumes his quiet exploring, with teeth nipping gently at the inside of Frank’s thighs, and Frank can’t keep his hips from bucking. The careful contact urges the small of his back into an arch, like a contraction teasing his muscles and pulling at his skin just enough to separate him from the sheets.

He shuts his eyes and tries to concentrate on staying quiet, though his breath hitches loudly the moment Gerard wraps his hand around him. He gives him a firm squeeze at the base and nuzzles down his hard length, his breath hot against the taut skin, before he moves back up and licks around the head – hesitantly at first and then slowly teasingly. He meets Frank’s eyes for a split-second and the corner of his mouth twitches into a brief smirk as he wets his lips and lowers himself over his cock again. This time he fully takes him in, going as deep as he can manage.

Inexperienced or not, it’s definitely not his first time giving head, Frank is sure of it. He’s forced to dig his heels into the mattress in order to keep his hips from bucking into Gerard’s hot mouth and he could actually come any second. He doesn’t want to, not yet, but it seriously has him struggling, especially with the way Gerard hums around his dick, wet noises and slow strokes following his mouth.

Gerard pulls off just in time, as though he’s read his mind, and moves on top of him again, only pausing to press wet, open-mouthed kisses against his throat and collarbones. “You’re not impressed, are you?” he grins, a rough edge to his voice.

Frank does his best at producing an indifferent shrug to match him. “Takes more when you’re invincible.”

He’s trying to sound casual, like he really is modestly satisfied with the whole thing, but truth is he can hardly even lie still. It feels like his skin is on fire, constantly tingling and prickling with a sensation that wraps him in unbearable warmth and stops his breath short.

Gerard just shoots him a knowing smile and gets back up on his knees. He reaches for the lube, his wrist trembling ever so slightly as he flicks the cap open and covers his fingers with the stuff. His fingers are slick against Frank’s entrance, carefully hesitant as they slip inside him; first one finger, then two. Frank bites his lip when he feels him inching further inside, joints gradually covered until the movement stops at his knuckles. The way Gerard moves his fingers is making him squirm a little against the mattress, his mind ticking the whole thing off as an intrusion. Right now he can’t tell whether he likes it or if it’s just weird, but his hand creeps down to slowly jerk himself off anyway.

Gerard’s forehead is laced with pearls of sweat, his deeply concentrated expression sometimes yielding against his slowly growing impatience. There’s no denying that he looks gorgeous, with the partial moon spilling blue shades into his hair and turning his skin milky pale. There’s something so endearing about his careful movements and his focused frown. At the same time there are glimpses of something slightly obscene, especially in the way he palms himself through his tight jeans and in the way he bites down on his bottom lip as if his self-control depends on it.

“Take off your pants,” Frank whispers, brushing his hand over Gerard’s bulging crotch and breaking the spell he currently seems to be trapped under. “I’m good.”

“Yeah?” His voice is strained, breathlessly expectant.

“Yeah, come on.”

A few clumsy moments later Gerard has managed to get out of the rest of his clothes. He struggles a bit with the condom wrapping but then his hands are on Frank again, gently stroking his chest and thighs before leaning over him. Frank spreads his legs, following his movements to make himself fit beneath him, to give him access. Gerard gives himself a couple of quick tugs before teasing his flushed cock around Frank’s entrance, his hands trembling a little. When he slowly sinks inside him it’s with his head tilted back and a weak groan escaping his throat, and he doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt.

“Oh my god –”

Frank complains into the curve of Gerard’s neck and clings onto him. He should have expected this, his lifelong regeneration considered, but the stretch and the initial pain still takes him by surprise. He can feel Gerard tense up above him, his unsure movements frozen. Frank grasps at his shoulders, knowing all too well that Gerard could be just that annoying motherfucker who cops out and starts apologizing instead, so he drags him down into a clumsy kiss before he can even consider it.

“Shut up ‘n move,” he manages when they break apart, though Gerard hasn’t even said anything. His voice is reduced to a groan and his breath is hot in the damp space between their faces. “Damnit, move,” he insists again, when nothing happens. “Fuck me, c’mon.”

He wraps his legs around the small of Gerard’s back and rolls his hips urgently, trying his best to encourage his hesitant rhythm. Gerard lets out a whimpering sound, hands pinching Frank’s hips, and he slides almost all the way out and then pushes back in. He slowly repeats this until his self-control slips and he surrenders himself to a hard, steady pace.

The sting and burn has faded and Frank moans under his breath, knees pressed hard against Gerard’s ribs and his hands digging into his arms. Intense pleasure circles the pit of his stomach every time Gerard snaps his hips forward and Frank finds himself completely mesmerized by him. He can’t take his eyes off his blissed out expression and the strands of hair plastered against his forehead, can’t ignore his broken words every time he clenches around him. His worried frown has evened out and his mouth has dropped open, his lips plump and glistening. He’s practically glowing.

Their skin has grown damp, hot palms clutching slippery hips, and the strain is causing drops of sweat to roll down Frank’s neck. It feels like he’s been completely overtaken, like he’s yielding against the grinding rhythm and opening up with every deep thrust.

Gerard grabs him harder and shifts, tugging Frank’s hips up from the mattress and pounding into him again, rougher, faster. He’s curled around him, hot and heavy, and Frank drags red marks down his back, incoherent curses spilling from his lips. It’s like every nerve ending in his body is on fire, leaving his skin radiant and tight, and he’s so full and stretched and overwhelmed and fuck. It’s like he’s coming apart every time Gerard bottoms out and it feels so good.

“Shit, Gerard, don’t –” Frank cuts himself off with a gasp and swears loudly. He reaches blindly behind his head with one hand and grabs a firm hold of the headboard. “Don’t stop,” he utters, almost snaps, his voice jerky and ragged behind his gritted teeth. “Don’t fucking stop, god –”

That doesn’t seem like Gerard’s intentions at all. He drives hard into him, making the headboard thump against the drywall, his thrusts erratic and his moans ending on a rough, needy note.

“Frank –”

He barely manages to choke his name out before his breath hitches. He bucks his hips one final time, coming inside him with a long-drawn groan and his head thrown back, exposing his glistening neck. Frank jumps on the opportunity and presses his lips against his feverish skin, clinging tightly to Gerard’s body while he slowly rides out his orgasm.

His chest is still heaving when he carefully pulls out. Without another word he reaches down between them and fists Frank’s cock, his movements fast and tight as he works to drive him over the edge. With the precise flick of Gerard’s wrist and with his gaze locked on his sated eyes, Frank doesn’t last long. He thrusts into his grip and shudders, finally spilling himself in ribboning spurts all over his stomach, loud and messy.

Frank’s head is practically buzzing. He closes his eyes with a sigh and sinks back against the pillows, his body warm, nearly burning up. “Fucking hell,” he breathes, his voice just as spent as his limbs.

He can hear Gerard tie a knot on the used condom and toss it away before collapsing next to him. “Yeah,” he agrees contently. “Fucking hell.”

There’s a quiet moment where drowsiness creeps upon them, slowly steadying their breaths and making their eyelids grow heavy.

“Hey, we’re actually ordinary together,” Gerard then mutters, his words drained and muffled by the pillow. “How cool is that.”

“Y’know…” Frank blinks up at the roof, and he doesn’t realize how logical it sounds before he’s said it. “I think fucking in that alley settled everything.”

“Mmm,” Gerard sighs sleepily. “Hope it lasts.”

Exhausted silence claims them again. Frank rolls over on his side, inching just a little bit closer to Gerard so he can surrender himself to the heavy warmth of his body. His breath is skating over Frank’s neck in reassuring intervals and Frank thinks that this is nice. It’s actually nice to be close to someone without really doing or expecting anything, without being in a rush to leave or make sure the other one leaves. It’s nice to be ordinary for once, to be just like every other boring person out there.

Frank stares at the shadowy curve of Gerard’s parted lips and stifles a sigh. He catches himself wondering how things would’ve been like if only they’d met under different circumstances. He wonders what even made them like this in the first place. Where the hell did it all come from? As far as he knows he’s never been in contact with anything remotely radioactive, poisonous or contagious, like every superhero seem to have been. It was just something that appeared out of nowhere and then gradually started manifesting itself as something unusual. It’s unusual for a kid to never scrape his knees and never cry, despite being the playground’s regular punching bag. It’s pretty unusual for a kid to survive a twenty-feet free fall as well.

He doesn’t really remember the events leading up to his accident, but he remembers the feeling when he fell. It felt like flying in slow motion, like he was being caught in suspended animation. The blue sky above him had opened up like an inviting ocean, one that he was meant to dive right into, and for a few long seconds he thought he was going to fall up and into that blue wide nothing. His childish heart genuinely believed that he could fly until he crashed down and realized he was stuck with something entirely different than that. It’s unfair. He’d much rather be able to fly.

He restlessly turns to face Gerard again. “You asleep?” he asks and pokes him in the shoulder. His reaction is a half-startled grunt and a disapproving frown that Frank takes as a no.

“You think we’re mutants?”

He’s left without a response until Gerard finally opens one eye and squints at him through the shadows. “What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“You think we’re mutants?” Frank repeats. “Like, evolutionary advanced people? Or… devolutionary crippled, depending on how you see it. I mean, what even causes mutations?”

“Oh, man…” Gerard sighs heavily at the out-of-nowhere late-night talk and rubs a tired hand across his face, a bit resigned. “Well… I guess nuclear radiation and stuff, like… Chernobyl and that shit. I don’t know,” he adds, cracking a wide yawn. “I think it takes some serious testing to find some common factor between us.”

“There’s no way I’d turn myself in for any research, if that’s what you mean. We’d probably get quarantined for the rest of our lives and all these mad scientists would take all these tests and then display us at science fairs.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Gerard grins into the pillow, amused. “Though if we did, we might just end up as some kind of medical miracle.”

“A miracle?” Frank snorts a scornful laugh. “Come on, man – it’s a cruel fucking world. Miracles don’t exist.”

Gerard doesn’t say anything for a few long moments. Then he scoots closer and reaches out to carefully wrap his arm around his waist. “I beg to differ,” he mutters against his neck, voice dry and sleepy.

Frank keeps quiet at that. He can’t really think of anything negative to say right now anyway.

Chapter End Notes

Hey guys! Hope you like this, sorry I'm so slow all the time. A heads up; I think I'm going to do one, maybe two more chapters of this. That's no less than what I had originally planned, it's just that the chapters are much longer than what I've previously written for chaptered fics. Just letting you all know :) Thanks for reading!

Part Six  
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes  
At one point in the middle of the night Frank wakes up, a shallow gasp escaping him as his eyes snap open. It’s still dark outside and the contorted shades of his surroundings look unfamiliar and confusing. He stares into the room, every shadow shrouded in momentary blurriness as he tries to figure out exactly what it was that woke him up. He’s positive he heard something. Maybe it was a random car horn, or a scream, or a possible intruder, or –

“Frank?”

The whispered voice appears so close to his ear that he twitches with surprise. He turns his head to find Gerard staring intently at him, his hair on end and his eyes wide.

“What…?”

“You were dreaming.”

“…no, I wasn’t?”

Gerard just raises his eyebrows in response, allowing Frank to catch up until he finally becomes aware of how clammy his skin is and how fast his heart is racing. Frank presses his palm against his forehead and pushes his sweaty hair out of his face, his memory scrambling to make sense, and it slowly dawns on him that Gerard is right. He was dreaming. The reason he woke up so abruptly wasn’t because he thought he heard something but because he was falling, right out of the summer sky.

Frank covers his eyes, frowning into his palms while he tries to navigate through the blurry world he just left. He hasn’t dreamed properly in years. Usually he’ll wake up with fragmented scenes escaping his mind, something that’s always too elusive for a solid memory, but this time he clearly remembers something. He remembers a specific room; it’s white, sterile and completely quiet, save for the steady beeping in the background. He retraces what’s left of his dream and listens to that recalled sound, keeping it on loop for a little while until the image of an IV-needle appears in his mind. It’s been inserted into his hand, his veins swollen and painful, and he realizes he must be in a hospital room. He’s wired up and breathing heavily into an oxygen mask, with itchy skin underneath the plastic edges and beads of sweat covering his upper lip. It feels like he’s burning up and his stomach is churning, his breath rattling somewhere deep in his chest, and he tries to spot whatever it is that’s lurking in his peripheral vision. All he catches are stretched shadows and muffled voices, before the roof suddenly disappears and he falls into the wide open above him.

Frank opens his eyes, willing himself back to reality. He sweeps the back of his hand across his damp forehead and shivers. That scene wasn’t so much a dream as it was something he had lived through once, when he was younger.

“Nightmares?” Gerard’s expression is worried, dark eyebrows pulled together in a questioning frown. “You were talking in your sleep.”

“It was nothing,” Frank mumbles evasively and turns away. “Just… go back to sleep. Never mind.”

Neither of them mentions the incident until a few hours later, when the morning light has fully developed and finally forced them both out of bed. Frank is sitting by the kitchen counter, chin in his hand, quietly watching the messy back of Gerard’s head as he prepares breakfast. A narrow path of sunshine falls warmly on Frank’s bare feet, confirming his physical presence in the moment even though his thoughts are delayed.

“It was a memory.”

Gerard turns around at the sound of his voice, his hands frozen in the process of opening a milk carton. “Hm?”

“What you thought was a nightmare. It was a memory.”

Gerard knits his eyebrows and looks at him for a moment, puzzled. Then he gives a slight nod, as though he was expecting them to eventually talk about this, and pours them both some coffee. “What kind of memory?” he asks as he sits down next to him.

“Just childhood shit.”

Frank hesitates, not sure if he wants to elaborate on it. He doesn’t believe in meaningful dreams and interpretations of such, but then again this is a memory dug out of the forgotten layers of his subconscious. This actually happened, at one point. Maybe it’s just the effects of being with Gerard and the normalcy that brings, but this particular event stands out in his mind as clear as anything, even though most of his childhood has always been a blur.

“I had pneumonia once, when I was six or seven,” he finally says, fingers playing absently with the handle of his coffee cup. “After I ended up in the hospital the infection turned septic for some reason. At one point it was so bad it almost killed me. My parents talked about it a lot afterwards, how I just barely got through it. They made a big deal about not recommending that hospital to our friends…”

He trails off, his words fading into a long stretch of silence where he can only hear the cars outside and the dull echoes of his heartbeats. A small group of people passes by in the corridor and a muffled conversation becomes clear for a moment before it disappears in direction of the elevator; ‘lovely weather’, ‘the park’, ‘stop for coffee’. It’s Sunday and people are going places.

“Okay,” Gerard begins after a while, eyening him thoughtfully. “It might not mean anything at all but this reminds me… I had tonsillitis when I was nine and that actually turned septic too.” He pauses for a few seconds and Frank knows what he’s about to say. “They didn’t think I was gonna make it either.”

“So…” He glances at him, suspicious. “What’s your point?”

“Well… We went to different hospitals and were treated by different doctors at different times in our lives.” Gerard stops to think, his head tilted. “The only thing we have in common – like, ever – is an infection that almost killed us and then a miraculous recovery.”

Frank wants to comment on that but he doesn’t know what to say. Instead they’re overcome by another moment of silence, one that is long enough for him to become aware of how hungry he actually is. It’s a strange feeling that will take forever getting used to, the feeling of regularly having to fill the illusion of a hollow void in his stomach, to provide his body with energy. He actually needs to actively engage in the maintenance of himself and his health, like everybody else, just so he won’t wither away and die. And now that he apparently is a part-time mortal, Frank doesn’t really want to die just yet.

“Maybe that’s what changed us,” Gerard suggests as an afterthought, pulling Frank back to the present again. “I don’t know about you but I used to be a perfectly normal kid before. I never thought it was significant but now that you’ve mentioned it…” He folds his hands around his coffee cup and shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe it altered our genes or something weird like that. I mean, I’m not immortal like you, but I’m more or less indestructible. I haven’t even been sick ever since the infection. That time I punched you in the face was the most pain I’ve felt in years.”

“Yeah, that hurt like hell.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Gerard pulls a slight face. “I still feel a little bad about that.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Shut up, I fucking told you to do it.”

It does make sense though, what Gerard is saying; it makes a lot of sense. Even though they’re sitting there with different outcomes and different lives, their stories match too well for them both to be pure coincidence. Frank is slowly starting to regret he brought it up. He doesn’t want to talk about the diseases of the past, not now when he’s actually okay with being healthy and living in the moment. There’s a spell hidden in there somewhere and he doesn’t want to break it, especially not with such a useless common factor like this. If a fucking infection is what screwed up their lives then they were better off not knowing because it’s too damn pathetic. If it all comes down to freak reactions, radioactivity would have been much more preferable and understandable.

“It was just a dream though,” he quietly points out. “Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Gerard looks at him for a moment. Then he nods and smiles. “You’re right, it doesn’t matter. We cancel each other out and that’s the main thing. Who cares how it works?”

He gets up, giving Frank’s shoulder a brief squeeze as he passes around him, and returns to his task of making pancakes.

***

Frank doesn’t leave Gerard’s apartment when Monday comes. In fact he stays for the next couple of weeks, only dropping by the Hellhole once in a while to get some clothes. This arrangement is a wordless, mutual deal, something that just happened instead of being officially agreed upon. Frank knows he would usually never surrender to this convenient rhythm, to settle down and adjust to someone else’s life, but here he is doing just that.

He’s not sure exactly what their relationship is because they never discuss it, but in many ways it boils down to being casual fuck buddies. It’s not like Frank crashes on the couch, unless it’s with Gerard. The difference this time is that Frank is willingly involved in other activities that don’t necessarily require unzipping something for better access. Sometimes they simply just hang out. It’s like they’re carefully testing each other’s limits, much in the same way they sometimes run little tests on their abilities. So far they’ve found out that it’s not necessary to be within sight of each other, like they first thought, but there seems to be a certain radius they need to stick to if they want their powers to disappear. Usually the spell of this radius is ridiculously weak and most of the time it doesn’t take many feet or floors or blocks for it to break. It’s like they’re perfectly attuned to one another, but this doesn’t seem to affect the surrounding world unless they’re together. It feels like their relationship is a little bit like that as well. It’s a strange kind of dynamics but since Frank doesn’t feel compelled to leave he can only assume that it works for both of them.

He doesn’t think about it all that much though. On the contrary, he thinks more about whether or not he should find himself a job, just so he has something to do while Gerard is gone. There are probably not a lot of places that would be willing to hire him, except from the usual boring ones where a cashier or two may be needed during the weekends. He’s definitely not the one with the most positive attitude either, which seems to be a key trait in every hiring process, though in his defense there are limits to how enthusiastic you can feel about bagging groceries and selling frozen yoghurt. Dealing with houses and properties would’ve been better, if anything.

Thoughts like these usually occur early in the mornings when Frank is the only one awake. He’s always the first one to rise, often long before the surrounding world starts moving for real. It’s definitely a leftover from his former life, the fact that his circadian rhythm is still so stubbornly out of loop. Most mornings, like now, there’s not much else besides Gerard’s steady breathing and warm body keeping him company, and for a while Frank lies there quietly, just thinking.

He rolls over on his side, watching Gerard and his curved eyelashes, his tangled mess of hair and his slightly parted lips. He just barely keeps himself from reaching out to touch him, to curve his thumb over his chin and across his cheekbones. All things considered, Frank doesn’t mind having to wait several hours for the sun to rise or the six o’clock alarm to sound; all things considered, he’s grown a little fond of this guy.

It’s the weekend and since Gerard doesn’t need to be anywhere he doesn’t stir until the sun starts cutting through the blinds. The first thing he does is to look over at where Frank is lying, as though checking to see if he’s still there. He smiles at the sight of him.

“Morning,” he mutters sleepily, his voice rough.

“It’s been morning since four-thirty.”

Gerard grins, stretching his arms above his head and cracking a wide yawn. “You’re fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

Frank leans back against the pillows and reaches up at the roof, the weak sunlight getting caught on his skin. He flexes his arm, watching the cold gleam shift along with his movements, stretched along tattoos that might just as well pass as shadows or bruises.

Gerard reaches out, letting his fingertips brush gently over Frank’s faded ink. “Are you ever gonna touch up on any of these?”

“I was planning on it, yeah…” Frank replies absently. “You’d have to come with me though.”

Gerard snatches his hand back, his expression adopting a hint of suspicion. “Why…?”

“Um, because we cancel each other out…?”

“Oh… Right.” He breathes out, as though he actually forgot, his cheeks turning a pink shade of regret and embarrassment. “Well, I can’t do that. I don’t like needles.”

“…needles.” Frank stares incredulously at him before he lets out a short laugh. “So… the strongest man on the planet is afraid of fucking needles, is that what you’re saying?”

“It’s a fucking phobia,” Gerard mutters defensively. “You learn that shit from past experiences. It’s irrational and hasn’t got anything to do with my strength.”

“But you’re not the one getting tattooed. Besides, I only thought I’d get this one fixed, to start with.” Frank points at his partial Frankenstein-tattoo; the monster’s black suit has turned into a blotchy pattern of jigsaw grey and his face is completely gone, smudged into nothing. It looks absolutely horrible and not in a good way. “I was planning on getting a full-sleeve but I guess it can wait ‘til later,” he adds, unable to hide a smirk.

Gerard lets out a reluctant groan. “I’m sorry, Frank, but I’m not joking. I won’t do it unless I really have to. Or unless I owe you.”

Frank narrows his eyes at him, teeth tugging at his lip. “Alright…” He scoots closer and into Gerard’s warm space. “So what do I have to do for you to owe me?” Without further hesitation he reaches between his legs and brushes his hand lightly over his crotch. “Something like this, maybe?”

“What –” Gerard’s body twitches and he splutters a little, staring down at Frank’s hand with a comical mix of surprise and shock. “You – you seriously think I’m that simple?”

“You have a dick,” Frank shrugs and keeps rubbing him slowly through the sheets, fighting back a smile when he feels him hardening in response to his touch. “Doesn’t get any simpler than that.”

“So – uh – if I come under these sheets you think I’ll owe you something?”

“What do you mean come under the fucking sheets?” Frank says, casually yanking them away from Gerard’s crotch and exposing him. “More like come in my mouth.”

Before Gerard even gets to reply Frank ducks his head and presses his mouth against the base of his cock, breathing hotly against his skin. Instantly he feels Gerard’s hands in his hair, his fingers threading through it and then pulling, almost in protest, before he stills for a moment. He can hear him exhale shakily and then his hands drop to rest on Frank’s shoulders, his palms clammy and warm.

Frank wets his lips and licks along the underside of Gerard’s cock, deliberately slow, sometimes letting his teeth lightly graze the taut skin. When he glances up he catches Gerard staring down at him. He looks desperate and expectant and impatient all at once, his jaw tense and his chest heaving. Frank holds his stare, spares a split-second for a fleeting smirk, before he takes him fully in his mouth. Without hesitation he goes as far as he can take and Gerard responds with a sharp intake of air, followed by a long drawn moan.

“Jesus Chr–”

He gasps, abruptly cutting himself off and clearly fighting the urge to roll his hips and thrust into Frank’s mouth. Instead he claws at his shoulders, his grip tightening almost painfully, and a couple of curses slip past his lips.

Frank pulls off and replaces his lips with his hand, stroking him firmly. He throws another upward glance; Gerard’s has thrown his head back, his neck arched and his shoulders tense against the mattress. The smooth sloping hill of his neck is exposed, his skin starting to adopt a light sheen of sweat. He gives another needy sound when Frank’s mouth reconnects with his cock and he bucks his hips out of pure reflex, catching Frank by surprise and making him gag slightly.

He ignores the breathless and incoherent apology and just starts sucking him in earnest, his fist preceding his mouth, and it doesn’t take long for Gerard’s hands to disappear from his shoulders. As they wrap around his head again, clutching and pulling, Frank is unable to choke back a moan. He’s done this countless times before and never really used to take pleasure in it, regardless of whether he was the on the giving or receiving end. Sometimes he’d care enough to make a halfhearted show out of it but honestly he’s always considered the whole thing a rather boring activity.

But this time he initiated it himself and he’s actually enjoying it more than he’s turned on by it. He enjoys being the reason behind Gerard’s responses, enjoys his hands tangled in his hair and the small whimpering sounds escaping his throat. He enjoys the taste of him, the weight in his mouth and the throbbing sensation against his tongue. Someone desperately needs him and he fucking loves it.

“Frank –” There’s a raw, pleading edge to Gerard’s voice and his breath hitches, making him sound completely undone. “Frank – I – fuck –”

Yet again Frank just ignores him, too busy trying to breathe deeply through his nose. His lips are slick and sore and the blood is rushing loudly in his ears, but he’s determined not to pull off. He sucks him harder, his cheeks hollowed and his tongue working along his shaft, and it doesn’t take long before Gerard’s back arches up from the mattress, his hips surrendered to erratic thrusts he can’t control. He doesn’t even get to properly articulate a warning before he bucks one final time and spills himself into Frank’s mouth with a loud groan, his hands gripping him so hard he can feel his scalp sting. Frank swallows everything and goes down on his cock a couple more times, the warm salty taste catching on the tip of his tongue as he slowly pulls off.

“Frank –” Gerard still has his hand tangled in his hair and his face is flushed, his bottom lip slightly swollen from biting down on it. “Frank, come here.”

He urges him closer, pulling him down against him. He opens his mouth to say something but changes his mind. Instead he reaches up to carefully brush his thumb over Frank’s bottom lip, wiping away a pearly drop from the corner of his mouth before he gently cups his face and catches his lips with his own. The kiss doesn’t last long enough to become deep or breathless but it’s warm and sincere, almost thankful, and ends with quiet eye contact.

“Please don’t tell me you wanna cuddle,” Frank then says, eyebrow cocked into a doubtful arch.

A wide grin spreads on Gerard’s face and in response he just wraps his arms even tighter around him. “I do, actually, so don’t be a fucking asshole about it.”

Frank rolls his eyes but surrenders anyway, allowing himself into his embrace with a halfheartedly concealed sigh. He tucks his head under Gerard’s chin and rests his head a little cautiously on his chest, though the rest of his body follows willingly, aligning itself almost instinctively against Gerard’s.

They remain quietly like that for a moment, with Gerard’s arm heavy around Frank’s shoulders. Frank listens to his heartbeats, dull and hollow within his chest, and before he’s even aware of it he trails his arm around his waist.

After a while Gerard sighs into his hair, his breath warm and oddly comforting. “Alright then,” he says, wanting to sound defeated although the smile in his voice gives him away. “So I guess I owe you.”

***

The following week however Gerard has an important work meeting and refuses to even go near a tattoo parlor before he’s attended it. He calls it a compromise of sorts and makes it clear that any further blowjobs in an attempt to speed things up or change his mind are out of the question. Frank just shrugs, saying he needs to book an appointment first anyway and besides, he’s got all the time in the world. For once that doesn’t feel like a bad thing, despite his newfound mortality. As far as he’s concerned immortality can go screw itself.

“What exactly is this meeting you’re going to?”

It’s the morning of Gerard’s departure and Frank watches him move about the kitchen, preparing coffee and wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt.

“It’s a training course, actually. Lasts until Friday.”

“Friday?” Frank raises his eyebrows at this new piece of information. “What’s so important it needs three fucking days?” He knows Gerard packed a bag the other night and he knows he ordered plane tickets, but he didn’t think the meeting was actually going to last that long. He figured a day, tops.

“Well, we’re supposed to be tested on useful designs,” Gerard explains, taking a sip of his coffee. “Like, we have to find environmental qualities that already exist and work with those, instead of messing too much around with color and individual style and whatnot. It’s not as fun as starting from scratch but it’s useful and cheaper.” He shrugs, cutting himself off when he realizes how close he is to aimless rambling. “It’s nothing new or anything, but showing up earns me a gold star from my boss.”

“So would a blowjob.”

Gerard smiles crookedly, easily picking up on the disappointed tone in Frank’s voice. “That’s actually true…” He looks into the air for a second, pretending to seriously consider it. “Maybe that’s my shortcut to promotion.”

Frank rests his chin in his hand, tracing random patterns on the countertop with his finger. “Aren’t these meetings where people usually cheat on each other?”

A moment of silence follows his question. In the end Gerard puts his coffee down and looks over at him. “So… does that mean you think we’re exclusive?”

“Hey, don’t fucking twist my words!” Frank quickly looks away in an attempt to hide the sheepish grin that’s spreading across his lips, but he knows Gerard has already seen it and all of a sudden he feels stupidly embarrassed. “Dickhead,” he mutters, though it comes out sounding more amused than indignant.

Gerard’s gaze lingers on him. “You should really smile more, Frank,” he says after a little while, almost fondly, and makes a move for the bathroom. “It suits you and it kinda makes me happy.”

While Gerard gets ready Frank turns the TV on, absently flicking through the channels. He wonders what he’s supposed to do the next few days. He assumes he could either go job hunting or even try reconciling with his parents, but neither of those choices seems very appealing. He’s more or less lost himself to the mind-numbing blur that is the morning news when he spots the digital clock in the corner and realizes that it’s five minutes to eight. Gerard has spent well over an hour in the bathroom and he actually needs to leave in about ten minutes if he wants to make it through the morning rush and to the airport on time. Motherfucker hasn’t even had breakfast yet.

Frank mutes the TV and frowns into the sudden silence, listening. The last sound he actually registered was about fifteen minutes ago when a few soap bottles were noisily knocked down, although that happens every time; fucking inside that cramped shower has proved to be highly impractical, at least.

He makes his way over to the bathroom door and knocks lightly. “Gerard, you okay in there?” He tilts his head against the cool surface and listens intently. He can’t hear the shower running or anything; it’s just an ominous kind of quiet, as though no one’s in there at all.

“Dude, you gotta stop admiring your own reflection or you’re gonna be seriously fucking late.” When that earns him no response he rests his hand on the doorknob, twisting it to check whether or not the door is locked and a fleeting moment of relief passes through him when he finds out that it’s not. “I’m coming in now, just so you know.”

Frank cautiously enters the bathroom, a painful sting of worry lodged somewhere in his chest, and he knows something is wrong before Gerard has even appeared in his view. When he does, Frank’s heart immediately leaps right into his mouth, an unfamiliar reaction of numb disbelief that almost leaves him dizzy.

Gerard is on the floor, slumped against the toilet and curled halfheartedly over the bowl like he’s about to be sick. He’s showered and fully dressed but his shirt is open by a few buttons and not properly tucked into his jeans, while his wet hair is plastered against his temples and forehead.

“Fuck –” Frank rushes over to him and seizes him by the shoulders. “Gerard?” He grabs his face and pats his cheek forcefully, shocked at how pale he is. “Hey, what’s wrong? Did you fall or something?”

It seems like Gerard is barely conscious, his head only nodding slowly in response, and a couple of excruciatingly long seconds pass by before he pries his eyes open. “I – I don’t know…” he mutters faintly, hazel irises gleaming dully from behind heavy eyelids. “I suddenly felt…” He doesn’t complete the sentence, just shakes his head and closes his eyes again.

“Um… Okay…” Frank bites his lip, his mind annoyingly blank. “Well, you can’t sit here,” he then says after a moment’s consideration. He gets up from the floor and hooks his hands under Gerard’s arms, pulling insistently at his limp body. “On your feet,” he urges him, trying to sound encouraging though it ends up sounding more like an angry command. “You need to lie down somewhere comfortable. Come on, man, fuckin’ move.”

With a mix of careful coaxing and pure force he somehow manages to get Gerard up from the cold tiles. He steadies him across the hall to the bedroom, all the while bracing his shoulders and trying not to fall over as Gerard keeps staggering, leaning heavily on him.

Gerard flops down on the bed with a miserable groan and curls up, already looking worse than he did in the bright bathroom lights. His face has adopted a pasty shade of pale, leaving his lips looking drained and chapped. His teeth won’t stop chattering and his breathing escapes him in rapid gasps, with erratic twitches manifesting themselves throughout his body.

For several long seconds Frank just stands there staring helplessly at him, completely transfixed by the throbbing pulse in Gerard’s neck and the dark purple shadows forming under his eyes. He looks dead or dying and Frank is at a complete loss of what to do. In the end he crawls cautiously into bed with him, cringing a little at how the mattress dips underneath his added weight. He carefully brushes Gerard’s hair out of his face and presses his palm against his forehead, which is so burning hot he almost snatches his hand back in pure reflex.

“Seriously, what the fuck happened to you? You said you haven’t been sick since you were a kid so what the hell do you call this shit?”

Frank glares at Gerard’s turned-away back and waits for a response even though he knows he’s not going to get one. The accusing tone in his voice only covers up for something he hasn’t felt in years.

Fear.

It feels like he’s being slowly overtaken by undiluted and paralyzing fear, the sneaky kind that reaches everywhere, the kind that mercilessly clogs each artery and stains every fiber. It makes him tremble, as if his nerves have been put into sudden overdrive and are now desperately working to fight something he’s got no control over. Everything within him is enhanced; his shallow breathing, his drumming heartbeat, his dry mouth, his chaotic thoughts. Frank knows he’s barely one emotional push away from stumbling headfirst into full-blown, incapacitating panic.

“I’m gonna call an ambulance, okay?” he eventually says, voice barely audible. He reaches out for Gerard’s phone on the nightstand. “I don’t think you’re gonna sweat this one out.”

A female emergency operator answers Frank’s call and she has a reassuring voice that somehow makes the situation seem worse. Frank hurriedly explains everything and rattles off the address and apartment number, before he follows the woman’s careful first aid instructions and systematically makes sure Gerard is stable and breathing.

“Just keep him warm and stay with him until the ambulance arrives,” the operator tells him. “They should be with you in ten minutes time.”

It’s the longest ten minutes Frank has ever lived through. He keeps checking the time, trying to leave enough room between the minutes for them to actually move, but they hardly seem to do that at all. At one point he could have sworn time had simply stopped. In the end he tosses the phone away and curls up behind Gerard. He moves as close as he physically can and wraps his arm tightly around him, his chest pressed against his back. Frank shudders a little when he feels the heat of Gerard’s skin burn through his clothes but he only snuggles closer, burying his face into the damp coils of his hair and trying to make himself comfortable.

“Hey, remember when you said we were ordinary together?”

He’s not sure if Gerard can even hear him anymore but he decides to believe that the auditory sense is primitive enough to beat consciousness and that his words are registered anyway, regardless of whether or not they’re going to end up as a memory. He pauses to tighten his embrace, his hand curling around a handful of Gerard’s shirt, and he can feel his heart racing against his wrist.

“I think you were wrong,” he continues, murmuring into his shoulder. “I think we’re extraordinary together. So don’t you fucking dare die on me now.”

Gerard remains quiet, seemingly oblivious to Frank’s confession. Frank sighs into his hair and tries to ignore the uneasy feeling that keeps moving restlessly through his body, sometimes settling briefly in his stomach, sometimes prodding insistently at his hands. He centers all his attention on Gerard’s uneven breathing and makes no attempt to move, not until he hears the distant sound of sirens. The ambulance comes to a choked stop somewhere outside the building and even then Frank waits as long as possible before getting up. By the time he’s let the two EMTs and their stretcher inside, the front of his t-shirt is damp with Gerard’s fever and his own anxiety.

He steps out of their way, trying to make as much room for them as possible. They approach the situation with a composed kind of rush, quickly assessing Gerard’s state while asking Frank all kinds of questions about him (allergies? diabetes? food poisoning? drugs? recent trauma to head or chest?). Frank shakes his head to all of them. He watches them strap an oxygen mask over Gerard’s face and it hits him how ridiculous this is. They’re treating the strongest man on the entire planet and now he’s been unexpectedly struck unconscious by some kind of mysterious fever; there is no way this all comes down to something he fucking ate.

Frank wants to tell them that but he decides against it. He can’t say anything, at least nothing that won’t sound completely crazy. He can’t really do much either, other than watch and wait. A few short commands are exchanged between the EMTs before they swiftly lift Gerard onto the stretcher, preparing to exit the apartment.

“I can ride with you guys, right?” Frank’s question sounds abrupt, almost rude, compared to their professional calmness, but he’s worried they’re going to forget all about his existence and just leave him there.

“I’m sorry, but unless you’re a family member –”

“Come on, man, don’t fucking give me that shit. We don’t have time to discuss this and I don’t require much space, seriously, just look at me.” He grabs the nearest hoodie and pulls it on, already headed for the door. “I’m riding with you.”

On the way to the hospital he silently watches Gerard’s head swing limply from side to side, gently following the movements of the ambulance, and Frank catches himself wondering if things would have been different if they’d never met in the first place. He can’t stop thinking about the time he saw Gerard in that alley, beating up a guy twice his size and then accidentally breaking Frank’s arm simply by running into him. It’s strange seeing him like this, the man who used to be fatally clumsy but still capable of bending steel with his bare fucking hands.

Maybe losing their powers was only the start of a downward spiral, instead of being an actual improvement of their lives. Maybe they’re going to end up destroying each other instead of cancelling their powers out. Maybe one of them has to die in order to restore some kind of natural balance. Maybe this is how the universe weeds out what it doesn’t need, by making sure that the perfect match are incapable of handling each other. Considering the world’s reputation of being a cruel place, it does make sense.

Once they’ve reached the hospital Frank tries his best to keep up with the EMTs without getting in their way, but he barely gets past the emergency entrance before he’s wordlessly excluded from their company. From there he’s unwillingly redirected and then abandoned in the waiting room while Gerard is taken somewhere else, disappearing out of sight along with a small trail of scrubs and white coats.

Frank throws his arms up and stares helplessly after them, feeling both lost and screwed over. So much for fucking healthcare – they’re obviously focusing everything they have on ‘health’ while blankly ignoring the last part of their promise. He lets out a frustrated huff and paces back and forth for a little while, tugging restlessly at the sleeves of his hoodie while trying to rid himself of the anxiety that’s currently crawling all over him. It’s not until he starts receiving ugly glares from the few people in the waiting area that it occurs to him how suspiciously jittery he must seem. In the end he stalks over to the nearest chair and sits down before someone accuses him for being high on something.

It’s remarkably quiet in the ER this morning. It’s too early for the place to be busy but at the same time it’s not early enough for it to be empty. It’s caught somewhere in an indecisive borderland, where the distracting events are far too few and where the smallest noise turns into the biggest nuisance.

Frank tries not to think about Gerard and focuses his attention on the woman next to him instead. She’s sitting a couple of chairs away, busy knitting something that’s meant to become a scarf or a sock or whatever. Frank squirms in his seat, suddenly too aware of the weak sound of knitting needles. It’s hardly even audible, just a small repetitive tinkle as the colorful yarn is continuously looped into a pattern, but he’s ready to swear that he can feel the trembling nervousness of the woman’s hands, her anxious waiting unsuccessfully transferred into something tangible. It’s almost loud enough to create an echo and it’s driving him nuts.

He rubs at his neck and shifts a little uncomfortably. There’s a prickling, itching sensation in his fingers and Frank balls his hands into fists, feeling clammy and unwell and for some reason his throat is so dry it’s downright painful to swallow. He decides to make his way over to the water cooler in front of him, determined to write this off as nothing but an extreme reaction to stress, but as soon as he gets up from the chair it’s as though the floor beneath him shifts.

Frank staggers sideways, caught completely by surprise. Before he knows it his legs give way from underneath him and he ends up flat on his stomach, his cheek pressed against the cold linoleum floor. The pain is sudden, hitting him like a solid blow out of nowhere, but it’s not because of the fall. It’s like his insides are determined to wrestle their way right out of him, as if his spine is on fire and everything inside him just wants to escape. Frank struggles to get up, wanting to make it to the bathroom before he pukes his guts out, but he soon realizes that he has no idea how to coordinate his body. He can’t tell his right arm from his left or whether his knees are bent or not. He can’t even figure out what is up and what is down in this room anymore; for all he knows he could be trying to crawl up the wall.

“Oh, my god! Are you alright –?”

The knitting woman is kneeling beside him; Frank can feel her hand pressed against his shoulder, carefully shaking him. After a moment the weight of her hand disappears and he can hear her call for help, her voice reaching him from somewhere far away, like she’s shouting through cotton or glass.

Frank opens his mouth, his heartbeat fast and loud in his ears and he’s not sure if he’s trying to curse or scream. Either way it only passes as a loud groan. The world around him is slowly turning blurry and he squeezes his eyes shut a couple of times, trying to force everything back into focus but to no avail.

“What happened?”

“I – he just collapsed right in front of me, I don’t –”

Someone’s talking from an indeterminate spot above him and Frank releases another pointless groan, his voice thick and stuck in his throat.

“Sir?” Hands on his shoulders and his back, trying to urge him to get up. “Sir, do you know where you are? Can you tell us your name?”

Frank only responds with a shallow gasp. He wants to tell them so badly because he knows perfectly well where he is and what his fucking name is, he knows that he’s capable of saying it but his heart is racing so fast he can hardly breathe, let alone speak. It’s like his lungs and airways have shrunk, determined to choke him from the inside.

“Is he with the febrile patient who just came in?”

“I think he is.”

Another set of voices emerges from somewhere but Frank can’t tell them apart anymore. His wrist is caught in someone’s grasp, their fingers pressed against his radial pulse for a moment before letting go. Next thing he knows he’s being hauled up on his feet, the world tilting threateningly from side to side as he gains height on the floor, and then he’s helped onto what he can only assume is a stretcher. Time seems to be passing him by in cut-off brackets, like a series of rapid snapshots separated by several seconds’ delay. He has no fluid recollection of his movements at all.

“They could be infected by something.” There’s a slight pause and then a clattering sound before an oxygen mask is strapped tightly over Frank’s face. “Quarantine both of them.”

Frank snorts, unsure whether he’s trying to laugh or cough or protest. It’s like he’s trapped in a helpless vacuum where he can’t do anything but watch the lights in the roof flicker by as he’s being wheeled down the corridor. He’s so dizzy he couldn’t have articulated anything coherent no matter how much he wanted to.

The room he eventually ends up in consists of a solid glass wall on his right, reaching from floor to ceiling, and that’s the only thing he registers before an unknown face floats briefly into his view. It takes him a moment to figure out that the reason why it looks so strange is because it’s partially concealed behind a surgical mask. Frank snorts again, thinking this is starting to look like a bad fucking post-apocalyptic movie. Maybe he’s racing Gerard on who gets to become patient zero.

It’s nauseatingly sweltering under the goddamned oxygen mask and he squirms, trying to resist the numbness that’s quickly spreading through him. It started somewhere at his feet and is now working it’s way up, taking over one body part after the other. It’s currently wrapped somewhere around his chest, branching out to cover his ribs and his shoulders and leaving a dull stinging sensation in its wake. Frank knows it’s eventually going to end up in his brain and God knows what will happen to him then.

He tilts his head to the right, helpless and disoriented, half-expecting the glass wall to be some kind of mirror. Instead he finds himself staring into another identical room and his heart skips a beat when he realizes that Gerard is there, on the other side of the thick glass. A small crowd of masked nurses and doctors surround him, and judging from their rushed body language something appears to be wrong. Frank just can’t see what it is.

He clings to the last remains of his consciousness and it hits him just how much he fucking hates this. He’s in an extraordinary situation right now, one that can for once be perfectly described by such a superior word as ‘hate’. If he didn’t have a reason to hate his life before then this is definitely the time to do it, when he’s about to die. Finally he’s going to fucking die and he wishes it wasn’t like that. He doesn’t want to go, not this way.

Frank struggles to catch another glimpse of Gerard, wanting to know what’s actually happening to him, but his head is spinning so fast it’s nearly making him blind. He’s reached a point where he can hardly breathe anymore, despite the oxygen supply and the machines he’s being hooked up to. The world is blurred at the edges, eaten up by a kind of growing darkness that only seems to exist in his head, and before everything blacks out Frank’s scrambled brain picks up on two spoken words:

Cardiac arrest.

***

The whole deal about ‘life after death’ is actually kind of a strange thing. Why try to force life back into the picture if death is supposed to be final? To get a second chance at life after the previous one has ended seems to work against the entire concept of dying – unless death is not final at all. Maybe it’s just a transitional phase, a recycling bridge leading to something entirely different somewhere and you start living again. You begin a new life, leaving your past life behind. Reincarnation. It’s not like anyone has ever returned from death carrying a detailed report on what is actually out there on the other side of existence, so no one can really say for sure what happens once you kick the bucket.

Frank thinks about these things for a little while, lost in dazed contemplation, until it slowly dawns on him that in order to reflect over this he would actually have to be conscious. More than anything this feels strangely similar to waking up, wherever he is, which is not what he expected death to be like at all. The more he becomes aware of himself, the more it becomes clear that he is somewhere, physically. He can feel himself resting on something soft and he can sense bright light piercing through his closed eyelids. There are faint scents and distant sounds, muffled footsteps and murmuring voices. It’s not like his body has dissolved and is now floating in space or anything like that. He’s even breathing, which at the moment seems a little pointless. Because he is dead – right?

“I’m glad you’re finally awake.”

The out-of-nowhere comment startles him and Frank frowns to himself. The unfamiliar voice is so sudden and close that it makes his heart skip a beat, a reaction that is much too human, not to mention alive. It only confirms and enhances his presence in the moment. This isn’t how he expected death to greet him, if he even expected a welcome at all. Maybe he’s starting his new life right now… but shouldn’t he be born first? Should he even be aware of the existence of his past life in the first place? Why does everything feel so perfectly normal?

Frank debates with himself whether or not he should open his eyes. He’s dreading what he might discover, afraid that the current calmness he’s experiencing is just a split-second’s fantasy before all hell breaks loose – literally.

In the end he holds his breath and squints hesitantly into the brightly lit room. His surroundings are blurry to begin with, nothing but an unintelligible haze of blue and white blobs. He blinks a couple of times, trying to force his eyesight to match his newfound consciousness. The room gradually swims into focus, and the first thing he registers is the window to his right and what looks like a small mounted television in front of him. Frank stares down at the foot end of the bed he’s lying in, for a moment unable to comprehend that the uneven bump underneath the blue cellular blanket is his feet – and then everything suddenly makes sense. The white drywalls, the sterile smell of anti-septic, the sound of bed alarms piping up somewhere in the near distance…

Frank exhales shakily. He reaches up to pinch his arm to make sure he’s not dreaming but instead his fingers brush against something solid attached to the back of his hand. The contact hurts a little and after a quick look he discovers the IV-needle inserted into the vein. Frank marvels at his hand, his heart beating fast and strong. He’s in a hospital. He’s in a fucking hospital. And if he’s in a fucking hospital it can only mean for sure that he’s alive.

“That feeling of disorientation is normal.”

The unfamiliar voice speaks again and Frank turns his head towards the sound, having forgotten all about it. A middle-aged man is standing next to his bed and judging from his white coat, the stethoscope sticking out of his pocket and the electronic tablet in his hands he’s obviously a doctor. He smiles at him and Frank only stares back as though he’s just met a rare, yet undiscovered species.

“How…” He stops to clear his throat, trying to find back to his voice. “How long have I…?” Frank gestures at himself, as if that is enough to complete his question.

“It’s Thursday and you’ve been here since Tuesday,” the doctor explains and checks the tablet, which must contain Frank’s medical records. “You’ve been unconscious but stable, and you were moved out of the ICU last night.”

“Is it – is it the same week?”

“It’s the same week.”

Frank searches his mind, trying to recollect something, anything, from the past few days but he comes up blank. The only thing he remembers is, well – dying.

“What happened to me?”

The doctor doesn’t reply right away. He takes a moment to check his records again, before he gives him a slight shrug. “We’re not quite sure, actually. At first we thought you had some kind of unknown virus but then it slowly started to look a lot like blood poisoning.”

“And… was it?” Frank swallows, his mouth dry. Strangely enough, this feels like his childhood all over again. “Was it blood poisoning?”

“Not… entirely. Like I said, it looked like it.” He hesitates, regarding him thoughtfully. “Frank – you were clinically dead at one point. Your organs practically failed right in front of us and you went into cardiac arrest. You didn’t come back for several minutes and were actually pronounced dead when everything just… I don’t know, you just came back to life somehow. We almost expected you to suffer from some kind of permanent damage but all your vital signs are perfect.”

The doctor falls quiet for a second, scratching his chin with a frown. “There’s no medical explanation other than it was some kind of epiphenomenon,” he says, as an afterthought. “Whatever it was that caused this probably flew under the radar because we were distracted by the blood poisoning and the organ failure. Either way it looks like your body took care of it on its own. It’s funny though,” he adds, amused. “It’s almost as if you regenerated.”

The doctor’s last comment, which is obviously a joke, triggers something in Frank’s memory. Rapid regeneration, of course; he’d almost forgotten all about that. Frank distractedly brushes his fingers over the IV-needle in his hand and once again he flinches a little at the subtle pain – and something’s different. If he had truly regenerated, like he used to, this wouldn’t hurt. The needle wouldn’t even have stayed in his hand.

The more Frank thinks about it, the more it becomes clear that this was something else than rapid regeneration. His powers are gone for good, eliminated by fever and cardiac arrest, and whatever his body did to bring him back to life was a one-time occurrence. Frank just knows. His entire body feels different now, like it actually belongs to him. Maybe he wasn’t too far off the mark when he believed he had been reborn.

He clears his throat and pushes himself up against the pillows. “Well, uh… This was nice and all but I really don’t think I need this anymore.” Frank gestures at the IV-needle. “So if you could just…”

“We’d like you to stay for a few more hours so we can make sure you’re fine, but you’re right though. Infusion therapy is pointless for you.” The doctor smiles. “I’ll send in a nurse.”

It’s not until a few minutes later, when Frank is finally left alone to use the bathroom and put his discarded clothes on, that he suddenly remembers Gerard. His name pops up in his head unprovoked, like a delayed reminder just waiting for a quiet moment to surprise him, and the memory hits him so hard it feels like someone just punched him in the gut. Frank stares at his reflection in the mirror, nervously picking at the small band-aid replacing the needle in his hand. Everything is coming back to him; how he had to help Gerard up from on the bathroom floor, how he had to call for an ambulance, how he had to watch Gerard through a barrier of glass while the medical personnel tried to save his life. Frank didn’t end up at the hospital because of himself; he came here with Gerard and the last time he saw him he was fucking dying on him.

He exits the bathroom and remains standing in the middle of the room, at a loss of what to do. The good news is that nobody has informed him about anything bad related to him. At the same time they might assume they don’t know each other; for them they could be two different patients with separate medical histories. Frank knows he should probably find a nurse or a doctor, just ask around and save time that way, but there’s something horribly uncontrollable and heartbreaking about receiving potentially bad news from someone else. If he can help it he’d rather find out for himself. At last Frank ties his Converses and steps out of the room. If he can’t find him on this floor then he’ll ask someone. In the meantime he’s free to wander around on his own and he’s going to find out soon enough whether or not Gerard is actually there.

He hurries down the corridor, trying to throw a casual glance into each room he passes without being too obvious about it. His chest contracts painfully every time he discovers an unknown patient and he’s so worried it feels like his heart is rising higher and higher with every beat. By the time he’s reached the end of the corridor it’s pulsing somewhere at the back of his throat.

Frank hesitates before he checks the last room, a sinking feeling of disappointment and worry settling deep within him. Just the mere thought of Gerard being gone makes his stomach lurch and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do if his luck doesn’t kick in now. He closes his eyes, counts to three and peers carefully around the door.

And Gerard is there.

He’s right there, lying in bed. He’s resting against the pillows with his eyes closed, although it doesn’t seem like he’s asleep. His face is pale and his hair is messier than ever, but there he is. He’s breathing, he’s conscious and he’s alive. Frank leans against the doorframe, his heart throwing itself into a somersault that nearly leaves him lightheaded and he finds himself unable to hold back a laugh. Gerard’s eyes snap open at the unexpected sound and for a couple of long seconds he just stares at him, his dark eyebrows pulled into a confused frown.

“Frank…?” He sits up slowly, a look of disbelief in his wide eyes as he watches him step closer. Then his expression slowly softens, his face finally breaking into a surprised smile. “Oh my god – Frank!”

Before Frank has even figured out what to say to him, Gerard has reached out and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him against his chest. He shuts his eyes and sinks willingly into this warm embrace, letting out a shallow sigh as he buries his face in Gerard’s hair. This time there’s no glass wall or unconsciousness separating them and Frank locks his arms tightly around his waist, only now realizing just how fucking much he’s missed him.

After a few moments Gerard pulls back, searching his face. “I don’t even know how I ended up here,” he admits, and his voice drops into an almost conspiratorial whisper. “I woke up an hour ago and the doctor told me what happened but I… I honestly don’t remember much of anything.” He stops to throw a quick glance over Frank’s shoulder, as though expecting more people to arrive. “Did you just get here…?”

Frank can’t help but laugh a little at his mild confusion. He sits down on the edge of the bed, resisting the urge to rest his hand on Gerard’s thigh. “No, man, I’ve been here since Tuesday, like you. Seriously, my room’s at the other end of the corridor.”

“So… you’re saying that you as well –?”

“Yeah, I got it too. I think I fucking passed out in the ER or something.”

“Oh…” Gerard takes a deep breath and then exhales slowly, taking a moment to process this new information. He sinks back against the pillows, his pale cheeks having regained some color. “Well…” He hesitates for a moment, before he reaches out to give Frank’s hand a squeeze, his chapped lips curled into a tiny embarrassed smile. “Whatever it was, I’m glad you’re okay.”

Frank looks thoughtfully down at the hand covering his. Gerard’s palm is clammy against his knuckles, reassuringly warm and close. He hasn’t thought much about it but now it almost seems as if they were programmed to react this way, like their mere existence worked as a trigger. It’s like all the small changes they’ve experienced together have built up to this very moment. They brought this out in each other. It seems like they were both at fault for ending up here.

“They told me I was dead for several minutes,” Gerard then says, quietly interrupting Frank’s thoughts. He pulls his hand back and reaches up to rub his chest, as though subconsciously checking that his heart is still beating. He throws Frank a quick glance. “I guess it was like that for you too?”

“Yeah, I died. They said it looked like blood poisoning but it wasn’t, not really. I don’t know.” He pauses, biting his lip. “So, uh, are you still capable of…?” Frank doesn’t finish the question, he just gesticulates at Gerard’s hands and hopes he understands.

Gerard responds with an indifferent shrug. “One of the nurses left her scissors here earlier.” He nods at the nightstand where said item is lying and smiles crookedly. “I tried to bend that thing for like, ten minutes straight.”

Frank picks up the scissors and turns it over in his hands. It’s perfectly intact, with not so much as a scratch on its stainless steel surface, only the smudged traces of Gerard’s fingerprints.

“I knew it was gone the moment I woke up though. I felt different… Weak. I’m pretty sure my powers are gone for good.” Gerard keeps his eyes trained on Frank’s hands. “So… it looks like we don’t need each other anymore, huh?”

Frank puts the scissors away at the surprising question, suddenly overcome by a passing feeling of defeat and loss. Gerard is perfectly right; they’re no longer dependent on each other in order to function normally. They can do that on their own from now on, thanks to whatever it was that happened. It’s like everything has been balanced at last and their purpose together has been done. It’s a good feeling but at the same time Frank finds this much harder than expected.

He runs his hand through his hair and straightens up. “What’re we gonna do about that?”

“Depends… Do you want to do anything about it?”

Frank looks away, his eyes closing for a brief second. This is actually typical of Gerard. It’s typical of him to be ahead of things like these, to bring them up because they’re important and then be considerate enough to leave it all for Frank to decide. It’s so typical and Frank had missed that, too. He doesn’t say anything, just leans forward because he knows he can’t fight back his smile and grabs Gerard’s face. He plants a kiss on his mouth that was meant to be quick but instead it only deepens, turning into a warm, hungry response of dry lips and grasping hands.

“Wow…” Gerard breathes when they break apart, his cheeks flustered and his fingers tangled in Frank’s hair. “Okay, I’m definitely down with this decision.”

Frank only finds himself smiling back at him. It’s a wide grin that seems to emerge from deep within his chest, one that is accompanied by skipping heartbeats and easily sparked by the most insignificant things, such as the curve of Gerard’s eyelashes and the odd red mark underneath his eye and the arch of his upper lip. It’s fucking stupid but he can’t help it.

Gerard shoots him a puzzled look. “What?”

“Nothing… but you told me to smile more, didn’t you?”

Gerard frowns at him for a moment, his memory escaping him. Then his breath hitches slightly and something in his expression changes when he finally remembers that this is not the kind of second chance that should go to waste. He reaches up to slowly brush Frank’s hair out of his face, his palm resting gently against his cheek, and he takes a good look at him before he leans in and kisses him again. 

“Yeah, I did,” he whispers against the corner of his mouth. “And it’s never made me happier.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm so sorry this took so long but by now you all know what happened to the band and yeah, paired with writer's block and real life it didn't exactly encourage writing. In regards to the break-up I personally am... fine? idk people who know me knows how much the band meant to me so there's no way I'm going to write an essay about that here. I'm good and I'll keep writing. Anyway, I hope you're all okay and that you enjoyed this :3 I just have one more part left to write in order to wrap things up a bit, an epilogue if you will. Thank you, love you all <3

Part Seven  
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes  
The braided Manila rope gives a slight protest when Frank leans back in the garden chair. He twitches with surprise and leans forward again, afraid he’ll break something expensive. He distractedly tucks an unlit cigarette between his lips and glances across the street, shading his eyes against the tall sun. It’s barely midday but one of the neighbors is mowing his lawn, another one is washing his car in the driveway, and further down the road a family is having a barbeque. They’ve got a large trampoline in front of their house and Frank can see a couple of kids jumping on it. Their pet dog, a chubby Golden Retriever, wants to join in but can do nothing but run in circles around them and bark loudly.

This is where Frank’s parents live and he doubts he’s ever going to get used to this brightly sunlit suburban nightmare. It’s so casual and orderly and he’s so out of place it makes his skin crawl. He can’t even justify his visit by referring to solid family ties. The kind of kids that grow up to regularly check in on their parents have somehow managed to turn it into a habit including grandchildren and homemade cookies, and Frank has no experience with that.

He contacted his parents about a month ago, for the first time after years of silence, and only that was a long process. He hung up on them three times before he introduced himself and when his mother invited him over it almost took him a week to finally accept. Now that he’s finally here, everything about it is awkward. It’s like he stepped into another world and it feels so ordinary it’s almost a little bizarre.

“You alright?”

Frank tears his eyes away from the kids on the trampoline and looks over at Gerard, who’s sitting next to him. His expression is slightly worried and he arches his eyebrow at Frank’s cigarette, which is still dangling from his lips, untouched. He responds with a one-shouldered shrug and hides it away for later, thinking this probably isn’t a good time to smoke.

“Yeah, I’m good…” he says slowly. “I’d rather go home, that’s all.”

“We just got here.”

“I know, thanks, I was just saying. No need to fucking state the obvious.”

Frank looks away with a roll of his eyes and mutters something about Gerard being more annoying than usual. Truth is he’s beyond relieved to have him there. He seems to be much more comfortable with the new surroundings and even struck up a conversation with one of the neighbors when they arrived earlier. If he had to do it alone this visit would be unbearable and besides it’s nice to have Gerard within the reassuring distance of an arm length. It makes Frank feel a little more at ease knowing that he’s there to step in should he shut down completely. He would never even have contacted his parents in the first place if Gerard hadn’t insisted on it. He’s an asshole for pushing him into it, although a well-meaning one.

“Hey, you’re gonna do fine.” Gerard’s hand closes over his, giving it a light, encouraging squeeze. “I bet they’re as nervous as you are. They wouldn’t be preparing something as simple as lemonade and snacks together if they weren’t. This is a good thing.”

Strangely enough, Frank doesn’t hold much of a grudge. Maybe he could use some more time to process this, but he’s not angry or bitter or anything. He’s just not used to sitting in his parents’ perfect garden and waiting for them to come outside with said lemonade and snacks. He’s not used to the thought of having to talk to them and update them on his life. So maybe Gerard is right; maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this painfully awkward reunion will turn out okay in the end. Frank just needs to survive suburbia for now and the next time he comes here it will feel better. Hopefully.

“You’re gonna have to help me,” he mutters as his parents finally join them in the garden. “Do that thing where you talk a lot.”

“Alright, boys – here we are!”

The cheery tone in his mother’s voice is convincing enough but her hands are trembling as she sets the tray on the table. Mr. and Mrs. Iero both look exactly the way Frank remembers them, even though they’ve obviously aged. Under normal circumstances he would probably be worshipping the ground his father walks on and thinking his mother is still the world’s most beautiful woman. But it’s been a while since things were normal and Frank really has no idea where he stands or what role to take. He decides to do what Gerard does, quickly putting on a smile and complimenting his mother on the homemade brownies.

The following conversation is impressively casual, especially when considering the amount of time spent beating politely around the bush. Frank is beginning to feel like he’s been thrown into something where time has stood still for everyone except him and now that he’s back he can’t seem to keep up. They’re still talking about their jobs; how Frank is currently working in retail, how Gerard is overseeing the construction of a new building downtown, and how Iero Real Estate is doing well despite the recession. Frank isn’t sure if he even expected this to be any different than what it is.

He glances around a little restlessly and discovers that a low hedge has replaced the white picket fence that used to be there. He didn’t even take notice of this when they arrived. He frowns to himself, trying to remember for how long the fence has been gone but concludes it must have happened after he left. It’s actually no wonder they chose to take it down. To witness your little son fall out of the window and see his blood spattered across the white painted fence is traumatizing enough. To watch him escape from it all unharmed can’t even be put into words. He can understand that the fence is gone.

“Frank?”

He looks up at the sound of his name and realizes he’s long since lost the thread of the conversation.

“Uh…what?”

“I said, do you want to see some of our unsold homes?” His father is looking at him across the table, his eyebrows arched along with his repeated question. “They’re right down the road. I thought you might be interested.”

“Oh…” Frank glances unsurely at Gerard, who gives him a quick, short nod. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

They walk together in somewhat uncomfortable silence, subtly trying to match each other’s pace without becoming too synchronized. Frank doubts there’s anything that could possibly be of interest to him in this neighborhood so he can only assume that he’s being taken away for a private conversation. He wonders what they’re going to talk about or where to even start. There’s a little bit too much to fit into ten minutes.

“I like Gerard,” his father says, breaking the silence as they slowly reach the end of the street. “He seems like a nice, ambitious guy. How did you meet him?”

“We happened to run into each other,” Frank replies evasively. “We’ve just stuck together since then, I guess…”

“Oh, right. Well – I’m glad you have friends.”

The topic isn’t pursued any further and Frank is more than okay with that. He believes his parents have already figured out that Gerard may be more than just his friend but he’s really not interested in discussing the relationship, especially not with someone he knows is eager to show him respect and acceptance. Things need to fall into place first before he can appreciate that.

After a while his father puts his hands in his pockets and gazes out on the neighborhood. “The sales have been slow in this area, for some reason. Actually, it’s just those three or four houses right over there.” He gestures across the street. “I’ve had them checked several times but nothing seems to be wrong with them. They just won’t sell and we can’t seem to figure out why.”

Frank looks around, giving the sunlit area a one-eyed squint. The people in this particular street are in constant competition of having the most well-tended garden and driving the most family friendly car. Goes without saying that the houses don’t come cheap around here. The electric transformer box at the end of the street eventually catches his attention. It’s a small necessity that would have gone unnoticed if it hadn’t been weighed down by graffiti. It looks like harmless teenage shenanigans but the random doodles are colorful and eye-catching and not at all attractive.

Frank nods in direction of the box. “Ever considered that thing over there?”

“What about it?”

“It’s been vandalized… And it wasn’t exactly pretty to begin with.”

“So… You’re suggesting that’s why the houses won’t sell?” His father considers his observation with a thoughtful frown, his hand running over the faint stubble on his chin. “I can’t imagine people would pay attention to something so insignificant… That box isn’t even that close to the nearest house.”

Frank narrows his eyes, trying to make out what the sloppy signs and scribbles are supposed to say but he finds no meaning in them. In a way, the graffiti reminds him a lot of the Hellhole. He hasn’t been back there in months now, hardly even sacrificed the place a single thought, but seeing this meaningless artwork smack in the middle of a sheltered suburb sends him right back to his shitty two room apartment and the rundown 7-11 across the street. He shudders.

“Well, maybe not… But I’m pretty sure that shit is gonna spread like wildfire if you leave it. Just, you know, give it a scrub down or a new coat of paint and the rest will sort itself out.”

Frank shifts impatiently, unable to keep himself from glancing in direction of his parent’s house. He can hear his mother laugh at something Gerard must have said and right now he really just wants to find him and go home. He’s done enough reuniting to last him the rest of this month.

“Frank, wait –” His father rests a hand on his arm, holding him back before he can make a move for the house. “I… I know we can’t expect everything to be okay now, not after all these years. The way your mother and I handled things was unforgiveable and you have no idea how much we’ve regretted it. You must’ve found us both insufferable but we just didn’t know what to do except provide for you, financially. I know how that made us look but… you became so distant and we assumed you hated us. As long as you kept withdrawing money from your account then at least we’d know you were alive. I’m just… I’m so sorry about all this, Frankie.” He squeezes his arm lightly, a pleading look in his eyes. “The fact that you wanted to come back, despite everything… It’s no less than a miracle.”

Frank bites his lip and turns away, keeping his eyes fixed on the transformer box. He really should tell them. He should tell them about all the cigarettes and the bullets and the broken bones. He should tell them about every bridge and train and building, about his vanishing tattoos and about what happened after he met Gerard, his near death experience included. He should tell them because they deserve to know – but then again, maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe witnessing his fall from that window was more than enough to last them a lifetime.

“I don’t hate you,” he finally says. He turns around to meet his father’s eyes for the first time – not only since he arrived but also for the first time in years. “You don’t have to apologize for something that wasn’t your fault. And everything’s different now. I’ve changed.”

“But you should never have to change. When it happened we should have accepted it.”

Frank shakes his head. “If it was anything else but this, then yeah, you should have. But in my case it wouldn’t have mattered. Whatever it was it couldn’t be avoided, it couldn’t be controlled, and I’d still end up the way I did. It would have ruined my life anyway. It’s okay… Dad,” he adds sincerely. “We’re good. Don’t worry.”

Before they leave his father assures him that should he ever get tired of working in retail and find himself interested in the real estate business, he’s welcome to contact him about it. Frank has never really spared his retail job much thought, it’s just something he does for the sake of earning money and keeping himself occupied, but his stomach leaps through a hopeful somersault at the thought of doing something else for a change. In the next moment he brushes his hand over the colorful tattoos on his arm and his expectations fade when he realizes how limited he is, both in education and as a representative.

***

“You could give it a shot though,” Gerard suggests once they’re back at the apartment. “If you don’t like it then it’s settled. At least you won’t have to keep wondering about it.”

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for something like that…” Frank shrugs his jacket off and follows him into the kitchen. “I mean, I never went to college… Barely even finished high school.”

“So? Just because you don’t have a degree doesn’t mean you’re stupid. Besides, your Dad gave you the offer,” he adds matter-of-factly. “There must be something to it since he actually owns the business.”

Frank sighs heavily. “Yeah, like trying to make it up to me…” He hoists himself up on the kitchen counter and makes a grab for the nearest apple. “I don’t know, I’m gonna have to think about it.”

“Well, at least try to be an open-minded pessimist. You hungry?”

“Fucking starving. Can we order pizza or something?”

“I was planning on making pizza, actually.” Gerard smiles widely and tosses an apron in his direction. “And you’re gonna help me.”

It’s while he’s slicing bell peppers that Frank accidentally cuts his finger. For a split second the knife in his hand gets ahead of his thoughts and falls out of synch with his movements, making the ease of absent multitasking into a complicated process. His grip on the handle slips and the sharp tip of the blade comes in contact with his skin. Frank drops the knife and swears under his breath, frowning down at the thick drop of blood seeping through the wound in his finger.

Gerard looks up from the pizza dough, his eyes alit with a moment’s worry before he notices the damage. “Oh. Okay, stay right there, I got it.”

He wipes his hands off on the front of his apron, his palms leaving smudges of flour across the stupid logo that says ‘Kiss the Chef’, and disappears into the bathroom. Frank is about to make quick work of it and stick his bleeding finger into his mouth when Gerard comes back with a travel-size first aid kit and drags him over to the sink instead.

“Come on, you gotta be kidding.” Frank sighs impatiently as Gerard lets the water run.

“Anything can get infected, okay,” he says and grabs him by the wrist. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“Christ, you’re paranoid.”

“Deal with it.”

“I am fucking dealing with it, I just –” Frank sucks in a breath when he feels the wound sting under the ice-cold water. “Just hurry up. It kinda hurts.”

Gerard dabs at his wet skin with a piece of gauze and puts on some antibacterial cream, his mouth curled into an amused smile. “Aw, you poor baby,” he laughs, mocking him lightheartedly. “It’s funny because you recently got a tattoo that covers ninety-five percent of your entire fucking arm, and it was so detailed you had to get it done in four sittings. You didn’t complain once, you’re even planning to get more – and here you are whining over a small cut. You’re actually insane.”

Frank opens his mouth to say it’s not the same thing, but instead his murmuring trails off into an indignant huff. Gerard pays no attention to his angry glare and pulls out a band aid that isn’t too big or covered in cartoon characters. A small affectionate smile lingers on his lips as he carefully tends to the cut and Frank finds himself helplessly unable to hold onto his annoyance. He realizes how lucky he is to stand there and simply feel his emotions change. Being able to feel anything at all makes his life look different; the morning rush angers him, skipping breakfast makes him cranky, sitcoms are funny, sex is awesome, staying up late gives him a headache, planning new tattoos is exciting, and being taken care of like this is slightly embarrassing. His life has changed so much in the past few months and it’s mostly because of Gerard. Gerard makes him feel everything and Frank should have told him already how thankful he is.

“Wanna know something?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Gerard looks up from the first aid kit, his eyebrows pulled into a confused frown. “For this…? You do realize it’s not really that big of a deal, right? I just wanted to be careful considering –”

Frank cuts him off with a quick shake of his head. “No, it’s not that.” He gesticulates aimlessly into the air, searching for words. “I… I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I’ve always been such an asshole, especially to you.”

“Where’s this coming from…?”

“I mean… I really – I really appreciate you,” Frank continues, stuttering a little. “I like what we have, seriously, I like it a lot, and I know we kinda agreed on things back at the hospital but… since then we never brought it up again. So… I’ve never really told you that I think you’re great and all. I wouldn’t be feeling like this if it weren’t for you and I’m just… I’m sorry I never said thank you or anything.”

“Oh…” Gerard blinks at him. “But… you don’t have to tell me that. I already know.”

It’s Frank’s turn to be confused. “You do?”

“Yeah, of course.” Gerard nods and reaches up to brush his hair out of his face, his fingers leaving a faint trace of flour. “For example, you occupied a shelf in the bathroom without asking me first. I keep finding socks and shirts in the laundry that aren’t mine, and every now and then you go grocery shopping after work, even when I haven’t asked you to. And, well… you go to bed with me every night,” he adds, looking at him with a sheepish smile. “It’s been months now but sometimes I still wake up thinking you’ll be gone… and you’re not. You don’t need me anymore but you haven’t left. To me that says everything.”

Frank stares at him. For some reason he was completely unaware of how much he’d actually settled in. It never occurred to him that the simple act of staying could be taken as something so meaningful. He shifts awkwardly and reaches up to rub his neck, not really knowing what he’s supposed to say. For a few moments he just keeps his palm pressed against his faded tattoo, where the words ‘FOREVER JINXED’ have long since disappeared.

“You were wrong,” he says at last, letting his arm drop.

“About what…?”

“About me not needing you anymore.”

Without giving it any further thought, he cups his face in his hands and leans in to kiss him. Gerard’s arms wrap tightly around his waist, pulling him closer, and Frank realizes why he’s been putting off getting his neck tattoo redone. The whole thing doesn’t make sense because he’s not jinxed.

Frank smiles against Gerard’s lips, knowing that his feelings for him are made out of more than just thankfulness. He’s in love. It doesn’t get more extraordinary than that.


End file.
